


Cristiano Ronaldo Discovers Brazil

by trimalchio



Series: So I Dream of Old Brazil [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 39,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trimalchio/pseuds/trimalchio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cristiano Ronaldo grows up in Brazil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. People are Strange, When You're a Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: None of this ever happened.
> 
> In all honesty, this was supposed to be rather short, but things got a little out of hand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family moves to Brazil.

 Cristiano was seven when his parents decided that their family was moving to Brazil. Their parents went to Brazil without them first, so Cristiano, Hugo, Elma, and Cátia stayed at their grandmother's house, waiting for their parents to call on them. One of their cousins, João, told them that monkeys would crawl into windows, in Brazil, and steal children away from their parents. He laughed when he realized that Cristiano believed him.

After two weeks, all four of them packed up their lives in Madeira and went to Brazil. Cristiano's first reaction upon seeing his family's new apartment in São Paulo was far less than impressed. There was a mattress on the floor in the living room and the kitchen was small. Their parents looked at his siblings and him, proudly, as though this apartment was something to be proud of. They expected Cristiano, Elma, Cátia, and Hugo to be happy with this new arrangement.

It was Hugo who spoke first, eyeing the mattress carefully, “Where are we supposed to sleep?”

No one wanted to be the poor sap who had to sleep on the living room floor.

“There's a room in the back for Cátia and Elma. Then, there's a closet with a sliding door, where we put your bed. And the bed out here is for Cristiano.”

Of course, he would get the mattress, while everyone else got a room with a door, or in Hugo's case a closet with a door. His clothes were put in the bathroom, in the vanity's drawers. But Cristiano was the youngest and didn't get to complain. Hugo laughed at Cristiano when everyone had to settle in for their first night in Brazil and Cristiano had to sleep in the living room.

“Don't let the monkeys take you away!” Hugo hissed from his closet, before shutting the door. Cristiano looked at the open window over the sink for almost a half-hour of being unable to sleep, and shut it.

The next morning, Cristiano woke up when his parents left to go to work and he couldn't fall back to sleep. Hugo walked out of his closet and complained, “It's like a sauna in here!”

They didn't start school until the next week. He didn't like it. The other kids made fun of his accent and everyone laughed at him when he said certain words that everyone in Funchal said. All of his siblings went to same school as him, since the school year was different in Brazil than in Portugal. Cristiano's own year was unaffected, since he had only to one year back in Funchal and they figured he wasn't too out of sync with his classmates, in terms of reading, writing, and coloring within the lines. Cátia, Elma, and Hugo all got pulled back a year. Cristiano got to laugh at them for once.

Their aunt picked up Cristiano after school, while Hugo, Cátia, and Elma all got to hang around the schoolyard after classes finished. Because he was the youngest, he wasn't allowed to be home alone without their parents. Their aunt watched Cristiano do his homework and they watched soap operas after he was done.

“How do you like Brazil so far, Cristiano?” she asked. So far, he hated Brazil. He didn't get why they couldn't stay in Madeira and why they had to cross an ocean and several time zones just so Cristiano could sleep on the floor in the living room.

“It's okay,” he shrugged. He looked out the window and saw boys playing football in the street. That was one not-so-bad thing about Brazil; there was football everywhere.

That weekend, Tio Mauro took Hugo and Cristiano to a game where the home team's name was Juventus, like the big team in Italy. Tio Mauro said, “One day, I'll take you to a Portuguesa game. Don't let anyone tell you different, boys, but they're the best in this city.”

Cristiano decided he liked Juventus, even if Tio Mauro liked Portuguesa more. They were named after one of the best teams in the world, so he figured they couldn't be that bad.

Things did seem better, though at home. Their mother didn't have to leave the city to get work, which was infinitely preferable to her leaving the country to find work. Cátia, Hugo, and Elma didn't tease him as much. They all got to eat dinner together and on Sundays, they ate at Tia Carla and Tio Mauro's apartment. They didn't have a washing machine on their roof and everyone had their own beds.

However, school was still terrible. Cristiano ate lunch by himself and the other kids still made fun of his accent, even though the teachers said not to. After school, he watched soap operas with Tia Carla, but one day, it was Tio Mauro's responsibility to make sure Cristiano didn't get kidnapped or skip his homework, except Tio Mauro was much less strict. After he was done with his homework, Tio Mauro told Cristiano to go play football with the other boys. Tio Mauro presumably had some important duties to tend to, like reading dirty magazines or fixing the radio. Chores that Cristiano would only disrupt. Tio Mauro didn't have time to rethink his position, since Cristiano fled the apartment in a second.

The boys were all different ages, some were younger, but most were older than Cristiano.

“I want to play!”

Most of the other boys didn't notice him. One shouted, “Go away, midget!”

“I can play! I'm good!” Cristiano shouted back.

The boys stopped, “Why do you speak so weird?”

“I'm from Portugal,” Cristiano said, “I'm good at football.”

“Hey, Nano!” one of the older boys shouted back towards one of the keepers, “The midget's going to play keeper!”

And they let Cristiano play keeper. He wasn't very good at keeper, but he did dribble the ball all the way up the street and scored anyway.

“Nano! Get back in the goal!”

Cristiano started like Brazil a little bit more and started hoping that Tio Mauro was always the one to pick him up from school.

He decided that he would win his war against the other kids at school through similar measures. During one lunchtime, he ate quickly and hurried to play soccer out on the field with the other boys. They ignored Cristiano, even though he stood on the sidelines shouting for them to let him play.

They started referring to him Eusébio, even though Cristiano barely knew who that was. To Cristiano, he was some player from when his dad was a kid, having little importance on his own life, but the Brazilian kids knew who he was, so he must have been important.

“Ugh, just let him play,” one of the boys said, “He won't shut up, if we don't let him play.”

That was good enough for Cristiano. He got the ball and soon everyone wanted him on their teams. They all started calling him “Eusébio,” but it sounded less annoyed than before.

And it was good enough for him.


	2. The Independence of Brazil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas in Brazil.

 The seasons were different in São Paulo, probably in all of Brazil. June, July, and August were cooler and spent in school, while December was boiling. Christmas had landed in the middle of a heatwave. In Madeira, there weren't white Christmases like in American movies. Cristiano had never seen snow in person, but having Christmas during a heatwave was still disconcerting. No one wanted to play football, while Elma, Hugo, and Cátia all crowded around the little fan in the living room.

Elma and Cátia put sheets out on the fire escape and all four of them laid out on landing. Their father had yelled at them for wasting electricity, but after he went to work, they turned the fan back on, but in time for a brownout, making the fan just as useful as breathing on each other. Cristiano read an old comic book, while Elma and Cátia whispered to each other about school gossip. Some men whistled up at them from the streets. Elma waved.

“Who are they?” Hugo asked.

“They're from my classes.”

“They look too old to be in your classes

“Are you jealous or something?” Elma asked.

“They're malandros,” Cátia said.

“What's a malandro?”

“Shut up, Cristiano?”

“Well, what is it?”

“They're bums who get by, by being charming,” Cátia explained. Of his siblings, she had the most patience for Cristiano, possibly because she was the closest in age to Cristiano.

It didn't sound like such a bad career choice to Cristiano.

The window opened. Their mother was home. Hugo checked his watch.

“I got out of work early. I need help making Filhozes. All of you are coming in.”

“Mãe, it's so hot out,” Hugo complained, “You can't cook in there. There's one window in the kitchen.”

“Christmas is in two days, We need to make these.”

Cristiano had never dreaded Christmas more. According to the O Globos that some homeless man had been using as a sunshade, it was supposed to get hotter until Christmas. The heat made most movement unwelcome. His t-shirt stuck to his body uncomfortably. All of them crawled through the window. All of the windows were open, but without a breeze, it was futile.

“We're lucky we live this far south, meninos,” their mother said, “If we lived further north, it'd be much hotter. Not to mention if we were inland. We'd have no ocean breeze.”

Elma snorted, “Imagine that.”

Cristiano looked forlornly at the curtains which steadfastly refused to move. The lights were off, but Cristiano couldn't tell if that was because of the brownout.

Then, they had to start making the filhozes. The stove had to be turned on and the oil had to be boiled. Cátia leaned at the window, during a break in the action.

Their father came home, in a decent mood for once. The apartment smelled like pumpkin, which was a positive, but it was heated like a cauldron. He kissed their mother on the temple, remarking, “It's like being home, isn't it?”

They never had snow on Madeira, but at least, it wasn't steaming hot on Christmas. Hugo slept on the floor in the living room, since it was too stuffy in his closet. Somehow, Hugo fell asleep, but Cristiano couldn't, staring up, the lights from the street streaming upwards onto the ceiling.

They never had snow on Madeira, but at least, it wasn't steaming hot on Christmas. Hugo slept on the floor in the living room, since it was too stuffy in his closet. Somehow, Hugo fell asleep, but Cristiano couldn't, staring up, the lights from the street streaming upwards onto the ceiling.

On Christmas Eve, they went to Tio Mauro and Tia Carla's apartment in Itaim Paulista. It took an hour by bus to get there. It wasn't really an apartment; it was more a duplex where they lived on the top floor and some other people lived below. It only had one bedroom, but they had a portable air conditioner in the corner of the living room. Elma, Hugo, Cátia, and Cristiano were laying in front of the air conditioner, silently thanking the Baby Jesus for making Christmas Eve better.

“Quit hogging the air,” their father warned.

“I don't know how you can stay in Heliópolis,” Tia Carla said to their mother. Cristiano shut his eyes, enjoying the cool air pumped out from the little unit, even though he was the farthest away from the machine. He was the youngest, such was his luck.

“It's until things get a little more comfortable for us.”

They went to Tia Carla's church for Midnight Mass, though Cristiano wasn't sure if there was a church in their old neighborhood. There probably was, but it was also probably a good place to get shot.

They took the bus back to Heliópolis. They walked past the crumbling shacks, which if they were back on Madeira probably would have been similar to their home there. Cristiano got a bicycle for Christmas.

“We got it big, so you can share it with Hugo!” their mother informed them happily. Hugo had also gotten clothes, meaning that he had gotten one and a half presents to Cristiano's half.

When school started in the new year, Cristiano was still not tall enough to use his Christmas present, so Hugo got to ride it to school, leaving Cristiano and Cátia behind. Elma went to the high school, so she didn't have to make the commute with them anymore.

Cristiano was in a new class with mostly different kids from the year before. Some of the boys from the football field were in his class, but it only meant he had to start a new football offensive to gain friends.

The teacher heard him speak and asked in front of the whole class where he was from. Some of the kids from the class the year before sniggered. Cristiano replied, “I'm from Portugal.”

“How interesting!” she said, “Tell us about Portugal!”

“I'm from Madeira.”

And the school year was not something to be looked forward to.

During lunch, he ate quickly and joined the rest of the boys playing out on the grass yard. It was the only high point of the day. After lunch, things crawled towards the end of the day. The teacher droned on and on, "We're going to be performing a play for the whole school about the founding of Brazil. We'll elect each other to be the different characters. Are there any volunteers?"

"Cristiano should be Dom Pedro!" one of the girls said. Cristiano hadn't spoken to her before. The others in the class agreed and Cristiano became Dom Pedro I.

After classes, he played football in the street with one of the older boys' real footballs. He stayed until the older boy decided to leave, taking his ball with him. Hugo was watching television when Cristiano got back from playing, covered in dust. His backpack was in a similar state, since he left in on the curb.

“Mãe's going to be mad when she sees you.”

“Shut up, Hugo.”

Cristiano sat at the kitchen table to do his homework, but was otherwise distracted, “Hugo, guess what.” 

“What?”

“You have to guess.” 

“Just tell me, Cristiano. You're too loud.” 

“My class is having a play and I'm the main actor. Everyone elected me to be the main character.”

“What's it about?” 

“Dom Pedro.” 

Hugo started laughing, “They only elected you because you're Portuguese!”

“He's the king of Brazil, though.”

“He was born in Portugal, stupid.”

“You can be the king of Brazil and be born in Portugal?” 

“Portugal used to run Brazil. That's why they speak Portuguese here,” Hugo said, “When is the play? I want to see it!”

“Why? You'll just make fun of me!”

“I know. Everyone's parents are going to think you're mocking their heritage. They'll hate you!”

Cristiano frowned into his homework. He thought he solved his classmate problem through football warfare, but he had neglected the girls, who probably didn't care as much about football as his fellow boys. Perhaps Hugo was right and there was a cabal of girls who wanted him to play Dom Pedro I in order to establish some order of embarrassment that would create an unwelcome environment for Portuguese immigrants.

He tried working on his Brazilian accent. He mostly practiced while walking up the stairs to the apartment or before falling asleep, whispering to himself about various things in an accent that sounded much different than his own. He was afraid to try it out in front of his classmates, who would probably make fun of him for that as well, or more likely, beat him up for apparently making fun of them.

At the end of the attempts, he realized he would never cultivate a Brazilian accent. Not one for the entire school to hear. As the play drew closer, fear welled up in Cristiano's belly. He started praying for someone to get sick, but he knew his mother would be upset if she heard that, so Cristiano put in the additional, “But not too sick so they don't die.”

The afternoon before the play was set to debut in front of the entire school, Cristiano was rereading his lines to himself when Hugo got home from wherever he had been later than usual. Cátia and Elma were both doing homework with Cristiano at the kitchen table. His lip was busted open and he had blood on his school uniform shirt.

“What happened to you?” Elma asked. Cátia stood up to get a wet washcloth.

“Some guys jumped me for my bicycle,” Hugo shrugged.

“They jumped you for my bicycle, you mean!” Cristiano shouted.

“Shut up, Cristiano.”

Cátia passed Hugo a washcloth. It figured. It completely figured that Cristiano would never even get to use his own Christmas present.

“I'll get it back, so don't have a stroke about it or anything.”

Instead of falling sleep, Cristiano thought about his missing bicycle and his impending play. It wasn't until his father left for work that morning that Cristiano realized that he stayed up all night.

The laughs started with his first line, “I am here in place of my father, Dom João.”

Part of it was because Cristiano's accent. The other part was because Dom João was played by Edu, one of the brown boys, who was also shorter than Cristiano. Stefany had looked somewhat ill throughout the entire play, so when it was Cristiano's big line to tell Dico, who was playing Jorge Avilez, to leave Brazil, she threw up on Mirella's feet. Lunch had been some type of suspicious fish, which Cristiano had forgone in favor of sneaking into the teacher's lounge with Edu to take the Pastel de Nata that had been on the main table.

Cristiano could hear Hugo laughing, louder than the rest of the audience, which was almost impossible, considering the reaction to Stefany.

“Shut up, Hugo!” Cristiano shouted into the ether. And the laughs swallowed it up.

Cristiano walked home by himself. He wasn't in the mood to play football with the other boys. He just wanted to go home and be alone. He kicked a rock with the toe of his sneaker for most of the journey home; he stared at the ground, dissatisfied with the beautiful day it was.

“Hey stupid!” Cristiano turned around when he heard Hugo's voice. He was riding Cristiano's bicycle, “I told you I'd get it back.”


	3. They Think It's All Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> World Cup 1994.

 The World Cup dawned on Brazil and almost overnight, everything had changed to blue, yellow, and green. The professional teams suspended play, so no one could get distracted from their dedication to the National Team. Tio Mauro liked to point out that eight of the players on the National Team were from São Paulo and one, more, was famously from São Paulo, but Tia Carla liked to point out that none of them played for Portuguesa.

“One day, they'll all come from Portuguesa,” Tio Mauro said, “Cristianinho will play for Portuguesa and he'll play for the Seleção.”

Cristiano father's was sullen that Portugal did not make it to the World Cup, but Cristiano thought it was almost impossible to stay mad in Brazil during the World Cup. Even the crumbling shacks had Brazilian flags waving from their glassless windows.

His own team, Heliópolis Youth, still played games, but not on the important days.

“Come on, Eusébio!” The other boys from school led him to some bar near the hospital. The television was a pinprick over the adults' heads; it was impossible to hear the commentary. Only twenty-six minutes into the first Brazilian game, Romário scored. The whole bar exploded into cheers, arms raised. Dico and Edu hugged each other. Raí scored a penalty later in the match. Raí used to play for São Paulo FC and according to Edu, he was the best player in the world, even better than Romário, which Cristiano thought was highly unlikely. Dico was much more rational and stated that Cafu was the best player in the World and that Romário was second best.

The last World Cup that he saw, he didn't really remember it very well. Cristiano was five and he knew that Portugal wasn't there either. After the game, even though it was late, Cristiano, Dico, and Edu all played football in the field behind the hospital, until they lost the newspaper ball they had been kicking around.

During training, the other kids on his youth team played like they were on the Seleção. Everyone wanted to be Romário or Bebeto or Raí. The slower boys knew that being Romário was impossible, but trying to be Dunga or especially, Cafu, was hardly anything to be ashamed of.

“You think little Ronaldo will play?” Wellington, one of his teammates asked, during the water break. Wellington was originally from Belo Horizonte, so he knew all about little Ronaldo, a skinny player with big teeth at Cruzeiro. Wellington continued, “He scores all the time. Every time he gets the ball, he scores.”

“He doesn't need to play,” one of the other boys said, “Romário is better.”

As the World Cup wore on, Cristiano caught matches everywhere. Some were at the open air bars near the hospital, one was at his aunt and uncle's place in Itaim Paulista, others were in his own apartment, watching on the old television, showing the too bright green fields of the United States. The American stadiums didn't look real and all of them were far bigger than Cristiano had ever seen. They were even bigger than Morumbi, which already seemed way too big.

Cristiano and Hugo knew better than to watch the Brazilian team in their own apartment. Their father was still bitter that Portugal could not qualify and hadn't qualified for the World Cup since their disastrous 1986 campaign, which Cristiano was not aware of, since he was only one year old at the time.

“Pai got really drunk after they fell out in groups,” Cátia told him, “We didn't watch the rest of the tournament.”

Everyone in Brazil worshipped at the altar of soccer and it was most obvious during the World Cup. Just walking through the neighborhood offered evidence of this. There were flags on every building. Everyone had their yellow Canarinho shirts, a lot with Romário's name across the top, but others with older players' names, like Socrátes, who retired to become a doctor, Dico said.

When the knockout rounds started, Brazil beat the United States, only by one. Then, they beat the Netherlands in a tougher match and Bebeto celebrated his goal by rocking an imaginary baby. After every game, Cristiano was struck with inspiration, so he would play football with the other boys in the street until someone's mother started shouting for them all to go home.

It was raining the night of the semi-final against Sweden. Their father was very strictly anti-World Cup out of bitterness, so Cristiano, Hugo, Elma, and Cátia listened to Cátia's little radio. The match stretched out uncomfortably, until the eightieth minute when Romário knocked in another goal. Elma and he hugged.

That week during lunch, everyone was trying to be Romário, all of them trying to be savior of their team.

Dico, Edu, and Cristiano went to watch the final at the same bar as the first game they saw. It was crowded. People were chanting, most were drinking. It was the most bitterly long match that Cristiano ever watched. It went the first ninety minutes without a goal. The last two bumper halves were goalless as well. The bar was silent when the penalty kicks started. Cristiano realized he was leaning forward, watching the match hungrily.

Márcio Santos skied the first penalty, but Baresi from Italy missed his, too. Romário scored his, but so did Albertini. Branco and Evani both got theirs, so it came to Dunga, who scored his. Italy's Massaro came up. He lined up and Cristiano had never felt such fear. Massaro missed and the whole bar exploded into cheers. People were hugging and Cristiano fell in love. No one even bothered to see if Roberto Baggio scored his.

Dico, Edu, and Cristiano ran out into the street. Fireworks were going off, people were chanting.

Dico, Edu, and Cristiano went to the hospital field to start playing again. There was a group of boys there already. One of them was filling a sock with newspaper and wrapping duct tape around it. They played under the fireworks and let the victory of Brazil wash over their game.


	4. Bad Kid

 Cristiano's mother got sick when he was eleven. They had been in Brazil for four years. There was no hint towards leaving and Cristiano was perfectly fine with that. He was starting to really enjoy his time there, even if they lived in a slum and he could find drug addicts in the stairwell of their apartment building slumped over and unconscious on any given day.

It was a summer day and it was too hot to play football. He, Dico, and Edu were laying under the trees in the field behind the hospital. They had been in Brazil so long, barely anyone said that Cristiano was the Portuguese kid. They still called him Eusébio, but it seemed like the reason for his name had drifted into oblivion. His father told him to leave the apartment, since he was being too loud. He didn't like being in the apartment too much, since he felt like such a burden. Everyone yelled at him for being too loud and for making too much trouble, but his mother said she worried if he was out in the neighborhood for too long.

Even Hugo lectured Cristiano on making trouble.

He had detentions more often than he didn't. Edu and Cristiano had gotten caught several times sneaking into the teachers' lounge, which merited detentions and if they were caught with food, they got extra detentions for good measure. A few times he got caught in the bathrooms, where he had to keep watch while Dico or Edu tried to kiss girls. Then, there were the days where he skipped to go play football near the hospital with the older boys, who mostly dropped out of school. He saved those days for when it was really beautiful and cool out. The detentions were kind of worth it; it was only an extra forty-five minutes stuck inside.

The teachers mostly forgot his first name, preferring to shout “Aveiro” as they chased him down the halls, as he sought freedom outside on the field.

His mother really wanted Brazil to be worth the move, Cristiano guessed, since she lectured him, whenever she had the strength, about going to school so he could go to university. Elma was going to university and it seemed like the worst thing in the world. It was harder and seemed to stretch on forever. His mother would mostly whisper, since she couldn't speak loudly or yell at him anymore.

“You can't be doing all of your stupid kid shit, anymore,” Hugo said, “You got to grow up.”

Hugo was staying an extra year in school to finish a trade program so he could become a repairman. That didn't seem as bad, but he had already decided a long time ago that he was going to play football for the rest of his life.

Cristiano stepped over another unconscious smackhead in the stairwell as he went up to their apartment. 

Their mother was sleeping when Cristiano got back. Hugo was at the kitchen table, his head bent over a workbook, probably for repairing washing machines or whatever. Their father had sold the television for extra money, even if it wasn't exactly a new television. Cristiano's bicycle went the same way.

“You want to help me make some money, Cristiano?” Hugo asked, in a whispering voice. Since neither of them had any artistic or practical skills, they had to be creative with how they were supposed to make some extra money. Hugo spoke a little bit of English, but probably nothing recognizably English, so they couldn't even try to scam tourists into thinking they were tour guides, though that type of con was very suspect, considering there were rarely any reliable teenaged tour guides in Heliópolis. One could even say that was a role filled only by little criminals.

Cristiano walked straight into the delivery man, knocking his clip board and box to the ground.

“You little fucker,” the delivery man growled, as Cristiano leaned down to pick up his clipboard and box.

“It was a mistake,” Cristiano insisted.

“Sure, whatever you say,” the delivery man snapped and went into the convenience store, snatching his clipboard away from Cristiano. Cristiano picked up the man's pen off of the cement and jogged back into the convenience store to pass it to him, too, “I'm sorry, sir.”

The delivery man sneered, taking the pen back. When he got back outside, he sprinted for the park, where he was supposed to meet Hugo. Hugo had a big box of candy that he was opening with his keys when Cristiano arrived. They sold candy to the kids playing soccer, some old ladies feeding pigeons, and some people walking dogs. They left the money in the mailbox, so their mother wouldn't figure out that they were stealing.

“Dolores!” their father shouted when he got home from work. Hugo and Elma were doing homework in the kitchen, while Cristiano read an old comic book. Their father continued, “I found fifty reais in the mailbox!”

Elma was getting her degree in teaching. Their parents had to borrow a lot of money from Tio Mané and Tia Carla to get Elma in school. She was going to be the first of their family to get her degree. Cátia seemed like she was going in the same direction as Elma, while Cristiano couldn't even rise to Hugo's level of interest in school, which usually hovered around nonexistent.

That night before he went to sleep, Cátia crawled up next to his bed in the living room, “Elma and I know what you and Hugo did.”

“What did we do?”

“We want to help,” she whispered. The next day after some early morning football, it was Elma and Cátia who distracted the delivery man, while Hugo and Cristiano both grabbed a box a piece. Cristiano's box had a different pattern, so he was worried he didn't get anything worth stealing. They ran to the park and waited near the fence for Cátia and Elma to meet them.

“What's in your box?” Hugo asked. Cristiano opened it, disappointed.

“T-shirts.”

“That's fine,” Hugo said, “We can sell those. I got candy again.”

Elma and Cátia caught up to them. Elma and Cátia got the candy, while Cristiano and Hugo had to go to the intersection to sell the t-shirts. They left the money in the mailbox again. Before long, everyone got too busy with school and no one else was brave enough to go through with the plan without him. It didn't really help anyway.

After his twelfth birthday, he returned to school and got through a few days without getting a detention. He walked back from training, kicking a stray Coca Cola can until it skittered into the street. It was an ordinary training session, nothing too odd or easy. They ran around the dry, dusty field, all pretending to be Romário. Shirtless old alcoholics sat on their folding chairs on the sidewalks, while Cristiano passed, with his too small boots slung over his shoulders, tied together at the laces. He was growing too quickly.

He jumped over the crackhead in the stairwell. He was splayed out on an entire stair. Cristiano went into the apartment and knew something was wrong. Tio Mauro was sitting on the couch, looking at a yellowing O Globo, flipping through the pages, clearly not reading it, unable to focus on the words. He didn't look up from the newspaper.

Cristiano dropped his backpack and his boots on the floor.

Their father took her body back to Portugal without them and didn't come back.

“Your father just needs some time to mourn,” Tia Carla explained gently, though Cristiano wouldn't have been quite so generous. Elma had to quit her degree, since they decided that Hugo's certification would bring in more money sooner. Hugo had to work extra hours after school, selling candy at the convenience store until the early morning. It was almost karmic, except very disproportionate.

The Aveiro household, though, gained a new reputation in the neighborhood. Without parents and rules, Hugo, Elma, and Cátia had parties all the time. Cristiano often slept at his Edu or Dico's houses, since he still had school to go to and he felt an odd, compelling need to go to school, even though it was very clear that no one would really care if he didn't.

He never felt like going home, really, so he spent his entire afternoons at the park playing football, when he wasn't with Heliópolis Youth. Cristiano didn't care much about anything but football. Dico and Edu were both Corinthians fans, so that was the team they would always watch on Saturdays. Cristiano studied the Corinthian players closely like a scientist.

“You're going to get sent off, if you keep hacking at the other kids' legs, Aveiro!” his coach yelled at him after a game. He walked to the park, still in his kit and boots. The older boys were kicking a duct tape ball around, so Cristiano joined them.

Some guy in a suit was watching them, definitely standing out in Heliópolis. The doctors didn't even have suits in Heliópolis. There were a cadre of old alcoholics in old lawn chairs watching the boys play, but there wasn't much else to do in Heliópolis, except to drink and watch extremely amateur football.

Cristiano stayed until it was only him and one other boy left. The other boy went to his own house, while Cristiano started to walk to his apartment. The man in the suit was still there in the field behind the hospital. Cristiano looked around. If he was about to get murdered or molested, the only witnesses were the lonely old drunks in their lawn chairs. The man in the suit asked, “Do you play with an academy?”

Cristiano shook his head.

“How much do you like the Tricolor?” the man asked. The Tricolor was the nickname for São Paulo FC, which was one of the lesser supported sides in Heliópolis. Their shirts had red, black, and white stripes on them. Heliópolis was firmly in Corinthians territory. During the weekends, the neighborhood had white shirts with red anchors. There were some Palmeiras fans lurking around, but they did themselves a favor and hid their green shirts away until the summer.

“They're okay,” Cristiano shrugged.

The man in the suit laughed, giving Cristiano a business card, “How would you like to play in the Tricolor youth academy?”

Portuguesa and São Paulo were enemies, but Cristiano also wasn't stupid. When an opportunity like that came around, there wasn't any good reason not to take it. He didn't even go back to his apartment, taking the hour long bus ride up to Itaim Paulista to see Tia Carla.

She made the appointment with São Paulo FC and told Cristiano to do his homework.

The next day at school, he could barely concentrate, though in all honesty, his attention to scholastic matters had been slipping since his father went back to Portugal without him and his siblings. His aunt picked him up from school; Cristiano had never been happier to see her.

“This is your mother?” the scout shook Tia Carla's hand.

“I'm his aunt, Carla,” she introduced herself. The scout showed them around the facilities and showed them the field, where the other boys were training. Cristiano was certain that he wanted to play there and watched the boys train, while his aunt and the scout spoke quietly. He hadn't realized how much he wanted to play for São Paulo FC before the tour of the training grounds.

“We're going to need a parent or legal guardian to give permission. Are you...”

“His father is in Portugal and we don't know when he is coming back, so I suppose.”

And Cristiano saw the most beautiful boy he had ever seen in his life kick an absolutely beautiful freekick. And love hit Cristiano in face.


	5. My Beautiful Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano's new friend.

 Cristiano was always one of the last boys to arrive at the practice field, since he always had detentions and he had the longest bus trip. The other boys there made fun of his accent, like the ones at school, but they saw how good he was at football immediately. The first six months settled into a routine: school, detention, practice. He didn't even really mind it when Cátia, Hugo, and Elma had their parties. He would just go into Hugo's old closet and shut the door. Hugo took their parents' bedroom, sleeping on Cristiano's old mattress, instead of their bed. They weren't sure when or if their father was going to come and it seemed wrong to just get rid of their stuff completely.

Cristiano caught glimpses of the beautiful boy every now and then, but it turned out he was older. However, one day, the older boys were told to play against Cristiano's team. Cristiano saw the beautiful boy again. He was only a little bit taller than Cristiano himself, but Cristiano was one of the tallest of his classmates. One of the older boys pointed out Cristiano to the beautiful boy, “Look, Kaká! It's the Portuguese kid you hit in the face with your freekick!”

The beautiful boy was the best, so Cristiano watched him. Peixinho shouted, “Look, Cristiano's in love with Kaká!”

Peixinho was one of Cristiano's friends from his team. Cristiano threw his shin guard at Peixinho; it hit Peixinho with a delightful light thump. Cristiano had to jog extra after practice as punishment.

Cristiano was walking towards the bus stop when the beautiful boy stopped him outside of the training grounds, “My mãe can give you a ride home if you want.”

He lost the ability to speak, but he nodded. The beautiful boy sat in the front seat of his mother's van, while Cristiano sat behind the beautiful boy's mother.

“Mãe, this is Cristiano.  He's very good,” the beautiful boy said, even though Cristiano had never properly introduced himself to him.  It was probably hard to forget the name of the only Portuguese kid.

“It's nice to meet you,” Cristiano said, remembering what his mother said about being polite.

“That's an interesting accent, Cristiano. Where are you from?”

“I was born in Portugal.”

“How interesting! Where do you live?”

“Heliópolis.”

"Oh."

That's when the conversation died. She had a fancy car and she probably didn't want to have to worry about insurance scammers jumping on it or something. She seemed like a nice lady. Cristiano wouldn't have wanted her to have to go to Heliópolis either.

“You can drop me off at a bus stop or something.”

“How about I left you near the highway?”

“That's even better,” Cristiano said. Wherever the beautiful boy and his mother lived, it was probably a lot nicer than Heliópolis anyway. Though to be far, his family lived in the nicer part of Heliópolis near the hospital in the apartment buildings, rather than in the old shacks with no windows and alcoholics leaning out of holes in the walls. If the beautiful boy's family had at least one car, they had to be rich. It wasn't even an old VW bug or some decrepit moving piece of metal from the 1980s. It was a new one with a fatter, rubber steering wheel, instead of one of those thin metal one, like Tio Mauro's old car that he sold so Elma could go to university.

Cristiano walked back from the highway, wandering what the beautiful boy and his mother thought of him. Hugo and Cátia were already setting up for a new party when Crisitano walked in.

“How was training?” Cátia asked, opening several beer bottles in preparation for whoever was coming over. Cristiano shrugged. Elma's new boyfriend sat on the couch, watching Cátia with his tongue between his teeth.

Hugo and Elma's boyfriend smoked paco, while Cristiano sat in Hugo's old closet, doing homework, mostly out of guilt. When the smell of burning paco drifted over the closet, Cristiano shut the door and read a comic book until he fell asleep.

When they first started throwing their parties, Cristiano wrote “DO NOT OPEN” on the closet door with their mother's old lipstick. For the most part, people abided by that request. That night, the door slid open and someone grabbed Cristiano by his feet. Cristiano immediately woke up, thrashing, kicking to get away. He got pulled out of bed, slamming his knees on the floor unexpectedly.

“Leave him alone!” Cristiano's eyes hadn't adjusted to the light, so he couldn't tell if it was Cátia or Elma who screamed that. Hugo pushed the person who had grabbed Cristiano's feet and shoved him violently into the closet, smashing his head against the back wall, kneeing Cristiano in the face. The man slumped into the closet, facedown on Cristiano's bed, unmoving.

“Oh fuck!” Cirstiano clasped his hands to his face.

The apartment seemed empty. The party must have wound down. Elma took Cristiano into the kitchen and pressed ice cubes to his face.

“Is he dead?” Cátia's voice was becoming rather hysterical.

“Shut up!” Hugo snapped. He called for Elma to take her boyfriend's pulse. Cristiano watched as Elma pressed her fingers to the man's jugular. She nodded, signifying his continued survival. Elma and Hugo dragged the man out of the apartment, so Cristiano and Cátia waited in silence. They returned in ten minutes, leaving Elma's ex-boyfriend in the stairwell with the other junkies.

“Everything's fine,” Elma said, thought Cristiano didn't really believe her. Surely, they wouldn't be living in a foreign country without their father, if everything was fine. If everything was fine, their mother wouldn't be dead and Cristiano wouldn't have gotten kneed in the face by his own brother.

“Everyone will just think he got into a fight and passed out on the stairs,” Hugo said. All four of them looked into the closet and saw the hole in the wall from where Elma's boyfriend's skull collided with the wall. Cristiano slept in their parents room on the floor, while Hugo snored.

That day, he drifted through class without a detention and got to take an earlier bus to the training grounds.

“What the fuck happened to your face?” Peixinho asked. Cristiano shrugged. Everyone knew he lived in Heliópolis, so it wasn't a surprise if he got beat up. He hadn't won a fight that wasn't in school.

The beautiful boy was waiting outside of the training grounds again, “Do you want to come over my house?”

Cristiano nodded, almost swallowing his own tongue. They took the bus to some rich neighborhood in Pinheiros. Cristiano stopped calling him the beautiful boy in his head, since they were sort of friends. Kaká had a real house with two floors and everything. Their washing machine wasn't even on the roof, like the old house in Madeira. Kaká had his own bedroom. It was like a movie. Cristiano felt insurmountably jealous of someone who was supposed to be his newest friend.

“Do you have to call your mother or something?” Kaká asked him, “To let her know where you are?”

“It's fine. They won't worry.” Because Hugo, Cátia, and Elma didn't worry. They weren't supposed to worry, really. They were supposed to be self-centered at their ages.  Cristiano was supposed to have a father who was supposed to care about his whereabouts.

They practiced penalty kicks in Kaká's backyard, until Kaká's father came home and Cristiano decided to leave to eat dinner at his own apartment with his own family. Kaká's father seemed very nice, though, and asked Cristiano to stay. No one mentioned the bruise on his face.

Cristiano jumped over Elma's ex-boyfriend's unconscious body in the stairwell. He had been lying there for almost an entire day. He was probably in a coma or slowly dying.

Tia Carla came over that night and saw Cristiano's face and the hole in the wall. She was on the phone with their father, “Dinis. Enough is enough! You need to come back to Brazil! Cristiano was assaulted!”

Cristiano didn't even know his own father's phone number, but apparently he had one. He didn't come back for another long while. Hugo, Cátia, and Elma were too afraid to have parties and Elma had saved up some money to go back to school, waiting for the new term to begin. Cristiano was kicked back out into the living room.

Their father came back after school ended, a few weeks before Christmas. Cristiano almost didn't recognize him. He was shriveled and old and shaking.

On Friday, after training, Kaká asked Cristiano if he wanted to go to Santos with his family for the weekend. He went back to the apartment and stuffed some clothes in his backpack. He left a message for Elma and went to Santos. His father probably didn't even notice that Cristiano was gone for three entire days. Kaká had a younger brother, who was Cristiano's age. Digão had brought his own friend, presumably someone who was from their own neighborhood, since he made fun of Cristiano's accent, too.

“Where in Portugal are you from?” Senhor Leite asked, while driving, “Our family is from Portugal, you know. A long time ago, though.”

Digão and Kaká both groaned at the same time.

“Funchal on Madeira.”

“Wow, an islander!”

“Pai thinks he's Portuguese since he went to university there,” Digão told Cristiano.

“Tell them how beautiful Portugal is, Cristiano.”

“I've only been to the main land once. And we were in the airport the whole time,” Cristiano said, lamely.

“Madeira is very beautiful, kids,” Senhor Leite said. Senhor Leite seemed like a pleasant educational television host, while Senhora Leite seemed like a mother from an old movie.

The Leites were normal, like a sitcom family from television. They weren't like the soap opera tragedies, like his own family. Cristiano was pretty sure that none of them had ever witnessed a family member cave in the skull of another human being. Admittedly, Hugo was defending him, but it was still odd and felt like it happened to someone else.

“Ricky! Cristiano!” Senhora Leite called them from the water, "We're leaving for dinner soon!"

“Ricky?” Cristiano asked. Kaká turned slightly pink and Cristiano decided that he had a new name for his beautiful boy.

The weekend with them seemed too short and Senhor Leite insisted on driving Cristiano the whole way into Héliopolis. Cristiano felt a wash of shame as they drove through his neighborhood. All of the cars were old, made before Cristiano was born. There was graffiti everywhere and people looked at the Leites' car, licking their lips. He wanted to tell them just to drop him off anywhere, but they insisted. The old drunks in their lawn chairs were out on the sidewalk. Digão kept taking weird breaths, especially after he saw the shacks with the crumbling walls that looked like caves.

“We should meet your parents one day,” Senhora Leite said as they pulled up in front of his apartment building, like they were pulling up in front of a detached house with a well-manicured lawn. Cristiano shrugged and ran inside. Maybe he was fooling them into thinking he was normal. Instead of a weird kid, sleeping on the floor, while his brother slept in a closet and his father got drunk all day.


	6. Oh Baby, When You Talk Like That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Injured.

 Cristiano was fifteen when Ricky got seriously injured. He had been still in the academy, even though he was eighteen. Elma had moved out to live with a new boyfriend. The ex-boyfriend from the stairwell did get up one day, but was missing a screw and disappeared from the neighborhood. Hugo was commuting to a repair shop in Interlagos, but he still slept in the old closet.

Avoiding the apartment was something of a hobby after Cristiano decided that he wasn't very much interested in school anymore. He didn't do homework if he didn't feel like it and only went out of the old compelling need to go. Sometimes, he'd hang around with Peixinho at the park or meet Edu and Dico at the arcades. More often, he'd go up to Pinheiros and climb the tree outside of Ricky's bedroom window and tap on the glass until Ricky opened it.

That night, he decided to do the same thing as usual. Ricky opened the window; he had one of those blue braces encased with foam around his neck.

“Isn't your dad worried about you?” Ricky asked, almost snappishly of him, but Ricky never snapped, so it was a mistaken tone. Cristiano had eventually told Ricky about his mother, but neglected to add the details about the year where father lived in Portugal without him or his brother or his sisters and the fact that his father could only really work as a gardner was because his hands shook too much to go back to the factory.

Cristiano shrugged, “How long are you in that stupid thing?”

Ricky shrugged back, “The doctor's not sure if I can play again.”

“You'll play again,” Cristiano said. He didn't want to think about Ricky not playing; Ricky was meant to play football. Ricky reached out, leaning close to him. Cristiano almost thought Ricky was going to kiss him, but instead, he pulled a branch out of Cristiano's hair.

“You know more than the doctor now?”

“I mean, I won't be able to win the Copa Libertadores by myself, will I?”

Ricky smiled and sat down at his desk. He still had homework and textbooks. Ricky still cared about that kind of stuff and not out of guilt. He only had a few weeks left until he was a high school graduate, better than anyone else on the team. He said, “My parents still want to meet your dad.”

“They won't like him.”

Cristiano usually said his father was always working. It had been three years since he had met the Leites and they still didn't give up on it.

“He can't be that bad,” Ricky said.

“How do you know? Have you ever met him?”

“Well, you're not that bad,” Ricky glanced down at his homework immediately and started rambling about Caroline, his girlfriend, and how she wanted to go to some expensive restaurant in Mooca. Cristiano usually ignored Ricky when he talked about Caroline. They didn't even kiss, but apparently, that's how Jesus liked it. The Leites were always inviting him to go to Church with them, but Cristiano was a Catholic by birth and didn't really care of his own volition, meaning that whatever the Leites wanted to do with their church was against his nature.

Ricky got injured at his grandparents' pool. That pool was the first private pool that Cristiano had seen in person, but Cristiano wasn't there when he got injured. He was certain if he was, he'd probably have thrown up or something. Digão said that the water clouded up red, since Ricky had bashed his head on the ground.

“This weekend, are you going to match?” Cristiano asked, after Ricky summed up his completely non-sexual and extremely old man-style relationship with Caroline.

“Probably,” Ricky shrugged, “The doctors aren't sure if I'll get better.”

“You said that already.”

“Well, sometimes you forget important things I say.”

Cristiano took the bus back to the Héliopolis and jogged from the bus stop back to the apartment building. He woke up when Hugo got back at two in the morning, slamming the door. He tripped over a fold in the carpet and went to the closet.

Cristiano stayed at the apartment the next day after school and after training let out. It was raining out and he read a comic book in his bed. His father trudged into the living room at five o'clock in the afternoon, just having woken up apparently.

“Who came in last night?”

“Hugo,” Cristiano said, not looking up from his comic book.

“Look at me, when you speak to me.”

“Why would I do that?”

His father walked over and smacked Cristiano on the head, snatching the comic book out of his hands, “You and your sisters and your brother have no respect. My father would have killed me if I acted like you kids.”

He threw the comic book out the window.

“Hey! I bought that!” Cristiano shouted.

“Stand up!”

“Why?”

“Because I told you to.”

Cristiano stood up, unwillingly. His father smacked him across the cheek; his father only got violent when he was really hungover. Surprisingly, when he was drunk, he was quiet as anything. It was a decent slap, but it still wasn't anything Cristiano hadn't dealt with before.

“What the fuck was that for?”

“Don't swear!” his father punched him. Years of fighting at school instilled a natural reaction, so Cristiano pushed him. His father landed awkwardly on the coffee table. And a natural flight reaction led to Cristiano running out of the apartment quicker than previously thought possible. He was down in the lobby of the building before he realized it himself. He beat a familiar path. Even though it was the middle of the day and not the middle of the night, Cristiano knocked on Ricky's window.

Ricky opened the window; he had been sitting at his desk, leaned over his homework.

“What happened to your face?” Ricky asked, genuine worry completely taking over his voice.

Cristiano didn't know how to speak anymore, so he leaned against the window, silent with wide eyes. 

“Your nose? Did someone punch you? Did you get into another fight?”

Cristiano shrugged, still unable to form words. Ricky tugged on his arm, “Come on, you have to go to the hospital.”

Ricky found a washcloth in the bathroom and passed it to Cristiano to hold it up to his nose. They sat in the waiting room at the hospital for a long time, but eventually the doctor put a splint on his nose and taped it.

“Can I sleep over tonight? I don't want to go home,” Cristiano asked when they were leaving.

“Of course. Always,” Ricky said. His parents were gone for the week; they went with Digão to visit Senhora Leite's sister in Campinas. Cristiano slept in Ricky's bed with him. It was the most natural thing, to be so close to Ricky. Their knees touched; it was all nice and comfortable.

“If I don't get better, Cristiano, you'll be the best, right?”

Cristiano mumbled into Ricky's pillow, “You'll get better. You'll get better and we'll be the best that São Paulo has ever seen.”

“Better than Raí?”

“Better than all of them. They'll name the city after us.”

Cristiano went back the next day after school and training. Cristiano ended up at school late, since he had to take the bus from Pinheiros to Heliópolis, which included two switches, so he got detention, as usual. Cátia was watching television when he got back. She gave a big sigh when she saw him, “Jesus! Hugo and I were worried sick!”

“Is Pai okay?”

“He's fine. He's doing the usual right now,” Cátia said, “No one knows where you disappear to all the time. We called Peixinho, but you weren't with him.”

None of them had met Ricky. They had met Peixinho, since Peixinho was from the same kind of neighborhood, in Jardim Colombo. Crisitano didn't worry about offending Peixinho's sensibilities, while Ricky probably wouldn't be comfortable with a mattress in the living room or old hypodermic needles laying all over the place.

“I'm fine. I was with one of my friends from the club.”

“Good,” Cátia took a deep breath, “Sit with me, Cristiano.”

She hugged him when he sat down next to her.


	7. You Got Me On My Knees, Begging Darling Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A New Religion

A few months later, Ricky's new girlfriend, Caroline, went to Europe with her family for the summer, so most of the summer was supposed to be spent at training sessions and going to beach with Ricky.  One day, Cristiano was stretching out after training, talking to Peixinho when the coaches walked past with a stranger in a suit, talking in low voices.

“Well, Aveiro is from Portugal,” one of the coaches said.

Peixinho kicked at Cristiano's heel, whispering, “He's from the national team.”

“How do you know?”

“Paulo got scouted last year for the U-17 team.”

“I can't play for Brazil anyway.”

Peixinho shrugged. After they showered and went to leave, the coach yelled for him, “Aveiro! Can you get your citizenship?”

“It won't be processed for a while.”

“It's fine. Just as long as you put in some paperwork.”

“Why?”

“They want you to go to Argentina for the U-17 tournament.”

Peixinho was the first one he told, but that's only because he had to find a payphone to call Ricky's house. None of the Leites were home, so he left a message. Cristiano would have skipped to Heliópolis if he wasn't in such a rush.

Cátia hugged Cristiano so tightly he was worried he'd pass out and die. They hurried to the courthouse before it closed to fill some forms out to prove that he was working on his citizenship.

Instead of spending the summer at the beach with Ricky and Peixinho, Cristiano went to Argentina, leaving Brazil for the first time in life since arriving in the country. It almost shocked him how fond of the country he'd become.

The coach had him start. The other boys made fun of his accent and it was fine. His shirt said, “AVEIRO” across the top over the number seventeen. They tried to teach him how to samba, since somehow, he had gone eight years without learning how to. Cristiano liked it; he decided that he liked being Brazilian.

“What's your full name?” one of the other boys asked.

“Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro.”

“Another fucking Ronaldo,” another moaned. The little Ronaldo that Wellington talked about became the one and only Ronaldo. And he was the new King Brazilian, better than Romário, even if the 1998 World Cup hadn't gone the way anyone wanted it to.

“I'm Cristiano Ronaldo, though!”

They crashed out of the first knockout round, but Cristiano didn't mind; he couldn't really mind. When he got back to São Paulo, he climbed the tree outside of Ricky's room and knocked on the window.

Ricky opened it and Cristiano crawled through.

“We do have a front door,” Ricky said flatly.

“I'm a convert. I'm Brazilian now.”

“Really? I thought you put in the paperwork a month ago?”

“I mean metaphorically. I'll pray at the altar of Pelé, Ronaldo, and Cafu, now.”

Ricky smiled, “You finally got your head screw on straight, then huh?”

Cristiano laid on Ricky's bed, looking up at the ceiling. His arms spread out wide, “Why didn't you tell me that this is what it feels like to be a Brazilian? I would have done this years ago!”

“I didn't want to spoil the surprise.”

“It's going to be great! We'll play for the same teams all the time, now!”

Ricky moved and sat on the bed, running his fingers through Cristiano's hair, his fingers got tangled up in his curls. Cristiano looked up, finally noticing that a certain blue monstrosity was not encasing Ricky's neck any longer, “Wait? You got your brace off?”

“It came off while you were gone.”

“What'd the doctor say? Are you going to play?”

Ricky nodded. Cristiano sat up, “We should celebrate.”

Ricky pulled his hand out of Cristiano's hair, “Where are we going to celebrate?”

Cristiano shrugged, “I don't know. Where do you want to go?”

“How about we go to your apartment? We're always over here.”

Cristiano shrugged. It was Ricky's celebration, he figured. They could do whatever he wanted.

-

Ricky followed Cristiano from the bus stop to the apartment building that his parents had dropped Cristiano off in front of dozens of times. They went inside and Ricky saw the broken planters in the lobby. Dirt spilled out onto the floor. The elevator had an out-of-order sign hung on it. Cristiano swore when he saw it.

“We live on the fifth floor.”

They trudged up the stairs, past garbage laying in the stairwell, graffiti on the walls, and unconscious scruffy people. They were outside of 517 when Cristiano opened the door with his key. The seven was hanging on one nail, so it looked like Cristiano lived in 51L. It was a small, dirty apartment, with a mattress in the middle of the front room.

“Don't take your shoes off,” Cristiano said, leaning down to pick up a hypodermic needle off of the floor, out from the shag carpeting, leaving on the banged up coffee table. He pointed up a narrow, dark hallway, “Pai's room is at the end. Elma's room, the bathroom, and the closet are that way, too.”

Ricky suddenly felt bad asking to see the apartment, repressing the urge to hold Cristiano, to hug him, to kiss it all better. Cristiano went into the kitchen and took a bottle that wasn't completely empty, but mostly full, from the cabinet.

“Cristiano!” a shout came from down the hall. Cristiano didn't seem to notice it, so Ricky didn't say anything.

“Come on, there's nothing to do here,” Cristiano grabbed Ricky by the arm. Cristiano led him out of the apartment, out of the building, to some field behind the hospital. Cristiano was pretty drunk when he spoke again. Ricky had never been drunk before and he had certainly never seen Cristiano drunk before. Cristiano and he had shared a lot, but there were still a lot of things that Cristiano didn't want to talk about and things Cristiano did by himself. Ricky did most things with Cristiano, Digão, or Caroline, not by himself.

“It wasn't always like that,” Cristiano said, the words sounded sloppier, with his old accent getting thicker; it had always been there, but was lighter and lurked deeper than it used to. Ricky couldn't imagined what he must have sounded like when he first arrived in São Paulo. “It got worse when he came back.”

Ricky didn't know, explicitly, who “he” was, but somehow, he knew that Cristiano was talking about his father. The father that Cristiano said was always working, the father that Cristiano didn't want to meet Ricky's own parents. Ricky touched Cristiano's face, feeling the slight sandpaper of his very light beard, but he pulled his hand away. Cristiano's forehead screwed up in confusion.

Ricky took another drink from the bottle, spilling half of the remaining liquor down the front of his shirt. Cristiano started laughing, leaning onto his back. His laugh was a nice change from their one serious moment, seconds prior.

Ricky rolled onto his belly, “What's so funny?”

He positioned himself so that his head was directly over Cristiano's. They were so close that they were just breathing on each other. Ricky pressed his lips against Cristiano's and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Cristiano opened his mouth mid-kiss and his tongue wondered into Ricky's. Even though Cristiano was three years younger, he was infinitely more experienced with this kind of thing.

Ricky opened his eyes and saw Cristiano's eyelashes, since his eyes were closed. They brushed against his cheek.

They laid in the field, looking up at the stars, with Cristiano's head resting on Ricky's chest. It was like looking up at Heaven and knowing God had created that moment with every holy intention.

“We're going to be the best together,” Cristiano said; his voice rough. For him, that was like saying “I love you.”

Ricky said, “I know.” For him, that was like saying, “I love you, too.”


	8. Love Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professional players.

 Most of the rest of the summer was spent going to training and then to the beach on the weekends. Ricky always turned bright red, like a lobster, in the sun.

“I thought you were supposed to be the real Brazilian,” Cristiano said, as Ricky smeared sun screen all over his irritated shoulders. Cristiano was already several shades darker than Ricky, even though they had spent the whole day together.  Ricky had mostly become pink.

Cristiano decided that he liked having summer in November until March, more than how it was in Madeira. Though to be honest, it was hard distinguish the seasons in São Paulo, since it was fairly temperate the whole year around. The only true difference was that during the winter it was mostly warm, but it could be cool and rainy sometimes. In the summer, it was usually warm, but sometimes, it was sweltering.

Since Caroline was still in Europe, it was okay to kiss. It was mostly done at night on playgrounds or in Ricky's room after everyone else had gone to sleep. They never had sex, since Ricky was very strict on the idea of not having sex until marriage. Cristiano didn't really care all that much about virginity and purity, but he wasn't going to argue. Kissing was fine enough.

When February rolled around, Cristiano turned sixteen and was bumped up from the academy to the senior squad. They gave him a new contract and they got him a new apartment, much closer to Morumbi. Cátia and Pai joined him at the new apartment, while Hugo stayed behind in Heliópolis with some of his friends from there. Cristiano had his own bedroom for the first time in his life that wasn't a closet with a mattress stuck inside.

School rolled off into non-importance, even though Ricky tried to convince him to stay, at least until he got his high school diploma. Cristiano started on the bench and watched everyone else play with all of the attention of a university student cramming for finals. Caroline was back, so it was awkward, sometimes. Most of the time, Ricky invited him along on his dates with Caroline, even though it was deeply weird and it somewhat obvious that Caroline didn't want Cristiano tagging along on their dates. Half of the time, Ricky would tell Cristiano to meet him at a movie theater and he would be there, running into Caroline before Ricky showed up a little later.

It wasn't until a month after he started training with the senior team that the Manager told him warm up on the sidelines. Cristiano was substituted for Ricky, who hugged him before he went on. The game was in its dying minutes when things got more exciting. Manolo launched a pass and Cristiano controlled it with his left foot, depositing it in the goal. The stadium was louder than it was before.

After the game, Hugo came over with a pizza. Pai probably didn't even notice that both Hugo and Elma were there; Cristiano wasn't even sure if Pai was even in the apartment. Hugo seemed normal, not high, so it was almost like everything was normal again. Elma ruffled Cristiano's hair, “Mãe would be so proud of you.”

Ricky's odd behavior continued. He was going to church more and half of his time before games started was spent bent down in prayer. Cristiano stopped meeting him at the movie theater or restaurants, not wanting to get blamed by Caroline for whatever odd emotional torture Ricky was putting himself through.

When they went to Recife or Rio de Janeiro for away games, Ricky didn't talk all that much on the flights and in the hotel rooms. Eventually, Cristiano got fed up with it and started going to Manolo's room and watching television with him.

Cristiano played more substitutions and eventually started. He played best when he got to play with Ricky, even if Ricky was acting like a total lunatic. Cristiano did miss out on the away Copa Libertadores matches, since his citizenship was still being dealt with and his Portuguese passport expired. In the middle of the season, in July, Ricky broke up with Caroline and seemed to snap out of whatever got into him.

At the time, Cristiano had been playing a video game with Digão, who surprisingly hadn't gone insane during Ricky's entire ordeal, when they heard someone arguing upstairs. Ricky was allowed to have Caroline in his room, if the door was open the whole time. Digão and Cristiano went into Digão's room and pressed their ears against the shared wall.

“Do you hear anything?” Digão asked.

“Shh!”

It was mostly Caroline's high-pitched voice shouting. Ricky didn't really yell. It was hard to parse words through the wall, but it was easy to get that there was a fight.

Someone slammed the bedroom door and stomped down the stairs. The front door opened and shut. When Digão and Cristiano went to investigate, Ricky was sitting at his desk, writing something, like he was doing homework.

“Go away,” Ricky mumbled into his papers. Digão and Cristiano finished their game, but instead of going back to his apartment, Cristiano climbed the tree outside of Ricky's window and tapped on the window to be let in. Ricky opened it. Cristiano sat on the bed, watching Ricky write whatever it was. When he was done, he ripped it up and threw the scraps out the window.

“My grandmother told me to do that,” Ricky said, sitting down next to Cristiano, sitting so close Cristiano could smell his shampoo, "You're supposed to write a letter to a person about how you feel, but never send it."

Ricky kissed him.

The rest of the season hurried by. Cristiano started more and again. Like always, his time was dominated by football and Ricky. They fell out of the Copa do Brasil during the first knockout round. In November, Cristiano got his citizenship and applied a passport. Tia Carla and Tio Mauro got a new apartment next.

Cristiano still went to Ricky's house and they would spend almost all of their time together. It was like nothing had really changed. Rogerio, their captain, called Cristiano Ricky's girlfriend. Cristiano didn't really care.

Sometimes, they would sleep in Ricky's bed together. They would set the alarm so that they would wake up before Ricky's parents woke up and Cristiano would finish his morning sleeping on the floor.

Early in the summer, they were at Ricky's house, in Ricky's bed, lying next to each other, “Do you want to go on a double date with me and Caroline and one of her friends?”

“Why do you keep getting back together with her when you know you're going to break up with her?”

Ricky shrugged. Cristiano positioned himself so they weren't touching anymore, “Don't you like this?”

Ricky didn't say anything.

“I love you,” Cristiano said, not looking at Ricky, instead staring at the ceiling.

“Aren't you afraid of what your dad would say?”

“No.”

“What about your mother?”

“My mother's dead. She can't say anything.”

“She's watching over you in heaven, though.”

“You're right, Ricky. I should be worrying about what ghosts gossip about.”

“That's not funny.”

“What do you want me to say? 'Yes, Ricky. That is a legitimate fear. I should think about what my dead mother thinks about.'”

Ricky didn't say anything in response, pressing his fingertips into Cristiano's open palm.

“Are you afraid of your parents?”

Ricky shrugged, but Cristiano knew it was the truth.

The next day, Ricky came over to Cristiano's apartment to get ready. Ricky sat on the wall of the bathtub, while Cristiano brushed his teeth. Cristiano had his hand over a small tub of hair gel, when Ricky said, “I like your hair when it's normal.”

And that was all anyone needed to say to get Cristiano to never use hair gel again.

Caroline and her friend met them at the movie theater in Pinheiros. Caroline's friend whispered, but Cristiano heard her anyway, “Why does he have an afro?”

“Cristiano, this is Marta. Marta, this is Cristiano,” Caroline said, smiling like a saint. She held Ricky's hand. That was as probably as far as they ever got. At least Cristiano got to kiss Ricky. Caroline always kind of reminded Cristiano of a puppet. One of those really beautiful marionettes that you could see getting sold on the street during flea markets.

After the movie was over, they were going to walk to a restaurant, but it was raining. Both Caroline and Ricky had hooded jackets, while Cristiano had his own sweatshirt. He was about to put the hood up, when Caroline elbowed him, whispering, “Give Marta your sweatshirt!”

Cristiano frowned and unzipped his sweatshirt, passing it to Marta, “Here.”

Marta smiled and took the sweatshirt. When they got to the restaurant, Cristiano's hair flattened with his hair getting in his eyes.

“So where are you from?” Marta asked, “Caroline said you're not from Brazil.”

“I was born in Portugal.”

“Really? It doesn't sound like it.”

“I've been here since I was seven,” Cristiano said lamely. He didn't think his accent had changed. Maybe it happened while he converted to Brazilianism. He asked, “Where's your family from?”

Marta shrugged, “Oh God, I don't know. Probably Portugal? Maybe Italy?”

They didn't have anything to say to each other, so the four of them sat in awful silence.  Marta ran her fingers through her hair, looking around, while Cristiano studied the menu so closely that he was starting to forget what letters actually meant.

“Marta and I go to the same high school,” Caroline said, to no one in particular, though definitely not Marta.

“Dom Pedro Imperial,” Marta specified, “Where'd you go?”

Their school sounded like an important, old private school founded in the 1800s, definitely during the Empire. They probably had to wear uniforms with jackets and ties. The school building was probably stone and had big steps.

“Escola Paulo da Silva.”  According to local legend, Cristiano's high school was formerly a prison, which possibly explained why the clocks had metal cages around them, but that rumor probably wasn't true.  The unofficial motto was "You never leave prison."  It was probably an unfair assessment, since most of the kids who actually bothered to show up for school were less likely to get put away for various crimes, but enough of the neighborhood had some kind of criminal record that it wasn't entirely inaccurate.

“Where's that? Is it in São Paulo?”

“Yeah, it's in Heliópolis.”

“Wow! Do you have any favelado stories?” Marta asked.

“Marta!” Caroline scolded, already a forty year old housewife in a teenaged girl's body.

Marta rolled her eyes, “You don't have to tell us if you've seen a drug deal if you don't want to.”

Cristiano decided that he liked Marta. She wasn't as good as Ricky, but that a burden that most of the World's population bore.

“My brother's a smack addict,” Cristiano said, “One time he cracked a guy's skull on the wall in our closet.”

“Wow!” Marta said. Ricky and Caroline both looked disturbed. Even with that said, they decided they would all go to Santos during the weekend.


	9. One Foot on the Platform, the Other Foot on the Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Motherland calls.

Almost all of Cristiano's time became dominated by Marta and football. Even though they were ostensibly “exclusive,” Cristiano didn't really feel like they were “exclusive.” It was a word that floated through his ears, as he talked to on the phone, promising her the World and told her that he loved her. Love was exclusively for Ricky. Cristiano liked Marta and everything, she was fun, especially since she was Caroline's opposite in almost every unobvious way, but as was the problem for most of humanity, she wasn't Ricky, thus spoiling her for Cristiano.

They did have sex, which made her very different from Ricky.  Marta was an Evangelical, like Caroline and Ricky, so sex had been Cristiano's idea. They all went to the same church. All of their parents were friends, too, which made Cristiano the outsider. Cristiano was always the outsider in Ricky's life, so he was already very used to it.

They were on the outside of his life a lot of times, though, too. If he was with his brother, they usually played video games and occasionally, Cristiano watched as Hugo and his friends smoked. Hugo understood that Cristiano couldn't do that stuff, but Cristiano never told Hugo not to do it. He couldn't really, Hugo was seven years older than Cristiano and it wasn't really an argument that Cristiano could have. If he was with Peixinho, the night usually ended up in some random woman's bed and the morning was spent sneaking out of her apartment or house. If he was alone with his father, they could have yelling matches for days, but Cátia lived with them, so she was a buffer. Ricky, Marta, and Caroline didn't know about most of that stuff, since Cristiano didn't feel the need to inform them. Caroline would probably call him a pig. Marta would probably slap him for cheating on her. Ricky would probably shake his head the way priests did when they were disappointed, but not angry.

Cristiano endured endless conversations about their religious meetings and services. When Caroline got on a good purity rant, Marta would put her hand his thigh under the table and squeeze.

The team doctors put Ricky on a new diet so he wouldn't be so skinny. They didn't do the same for Cristiano, since he was still growing. He grew two inches during the summer break. He was almost the same height as Ricky.

“I got called up for a tournament in Germany,” Cristiano told Ricky during training. The season had been going swimmingly. They were always starting together, Cristiano up front and Ricky in the middle. It was still fall, two months before the World Cup. According to the U-19 Coach, it was to create excitement for the World Cup, though Cristiano doubted that anyone needed to spur on more excitement for the World Cup.

“Which team?”

“U-19.”

“No. I mean Brazil or Portugal?”

“Brazil.”

“Good. I know you'll do well,” Ricky said, touching Cristiano's shoulder, like a priest blessing one of the passionate.

Brazil won the tournament. Cristiano scored a hat trick in a game against South Korea. His shirt read “C.Ronaldo.” He was no longer “AVEIRO.” He was a different Ronaldo, but one of the lineage, apparently. Cristiano played in every game and he won the Golden Ball. 

He caught a flight to Madeira. The manager said that it was okay to extend his vacation to see his relatives in Portugal. Funchal felt tight, like an old t-shirt, instead of feeling like home. Cristiano almost thought that he would feel like he was the prodigal son returning home, but instead he felt like an awkward acquaintance meeting up with a distant friend. He caught a bus to the old neighborhood, looking at the kids playing football in the street. There weren't old shirtless alcoholics watching their game. Cristiano watched for a little bit, but eventually he continued walking.

His grandparents' house was very familiar looking, even if he hadn't actually seen it in nine years. Due to the length of time, the old house looked uncannily familiar, even though he knew when and why it was familiar. Cristiano knocked, taking a deep breath.

-

Maria had been waiting at the house, but not slavishly waiting, or so she told herself. Every so often, she caught herself checking the oven clock, even though Cristiano had not given her an exact time. She found herself sitting near the front door, absently reading an old magazine, not fulling recognizing the words anymore. She tried doing laundry, but couldn't concentrate.

She hadn't seen four of her grandchildren in nearly ten years. Brazil was a long way from Madeira.

When she heard the knock, she rushed up to the front door and opened it. She didn't even look at the boy who knocked properly, just hugging him tightly. She pushed away, looking at him properly. The same mess of curly hair and the same eyes, but his face had matured significantly, which was to be expected over the course of ten years; with a very pronounced adam's apple. His nose had a slight little bump in it, which hadn't been there when he was a little boy. She held him closely again.

“Avó,” he whispered.

Her children and their husbands and wives and their children came to the house that night. Cristiano didn't seem too comfortable with the others, but smiled politely and laughed when he was supposed to.

João shouted for Cristiano from end of the table, “So when are you going to play for Portugal?”

Cristiano blushed, shrugging, “I don't know. They've never called me up.”

“But Brazil has?”

“I do live there, so they remember me easier.”

Cristiano played football with his cousins after dinner, like he used to, when he was a child. She watched them play out the window. He had such a genius for football.

The next morning, she asked if Cristiano wanted to go to Church. He went along. He was quiet for most of the morning, looking around as though he recognized things from a long time ago. She took him to the cemetery and he stood outside of it awkwardly, kicking rocks on the side of the road, while Maria went in.

“She would be so proud of you, Cristiano,” Maria said to him as they walked back to the house. He shrugged and didn't say anything. During lunch, he continued being very quiet. She had made espetada, which he had liked when he was a little boy.

“Do you think you'd want to move back to Portugal, Cristiano?” she asked, “I'm sure they'd love you at Nacional. We'd give you to Marítmo, if it meant you could come back.”

“I really like my team now.”

“Which team do you play for now? Carla said that Mauro was mad when you started playing for them.”

“He's not really mad,” Cristiano smiled slightly, “I play for São Paulo. They're the second best. Portuguesa is the best.”

Cristiano played with his napkin, “We're really good. I think next year will be our year.”

“Why don't you come back to Portugal? Everyone here misses your family. We all miss you.”

“I like Brazil,” he said, “I have a Brazilian passport.”

“That doesn't make you Brazilian.”

She saw the lightbulb behind his eyes flicker. He insisted, “You've never been there. They play the best football there. Everyone plays football and they all think they'll be famous footballers. They play so good they can fly.”

“Football isn't a country.”

“In Brazil, it is.”

She had lost her little Cristiano to Brazil again.

-

Cristiano got back to São Paulo and cup fever had descended yet another again. Ricky got called up for Brazil and the Portuguese National Team called. They saw the performance in Germany and were evidently struck by his talent. Cristiano's stomach dropped several stories.

Cristiano told them that he had to think about it. The next day before training in the locker room, Ricky, Rogerio, and Júlio Baptista were all talking about national duty excitedly. Cristiano got dressed, not really paying attention to their conversation, going over the possibilities in his head.  Play for Portugal and rule out any future on the Brazilian National Team.  Reject Portugal and possibly never go to the World Cup.  

“Let's not talk about this anymore. I think it's upsetting Cristiano,” Ricky said.

Cristiano looked up hearing his name, “What?”

“We shouldn't talk about getting called up when not everyone has gotten the same opportunities as we have,” Ricky said. Ricky smiled like he had just saved an orphan from getting run over by a car, instead of just conducting common courtesy.

“I got called up, too,” Cristiano said dumbly.

“I must have missed your name on the list,” Rogerio said, ruffling Cristiano's hair.

“I got called up for Portugal,” he amended, pulling a pair of socks out of his locker.

“Did you accept it?” Ricky asked, his voice sharp.

“Not yet.”

“You're not thinking about it.”

“I can't think about it? What if I never get called up for Brazil? They might never call me up because I was born in Portugal.”

“They'll call you up,” Ricky said.

“How do you know?” Cristiano demanded.

“Bless them. It's their first real fight, Júlio,” Rogerio snorted, but both Júlio Baptista and Rogerio still edged away anyway.

“Because you're the best. You're just young,” Ricky insisted.

“What if they never call me up because I was born in Portugal?” Cristiano asked again. The Seleção never called up anyone who wasn't born in Brazil. The youth teams were always different since they just called up random kids until a few were good enough to write home about. He said, “I could win with Portugal. They're not that bad.”

The other players were filing out to go start warming up.

“There are more important things than winning.”

“Not in football. Winning's kind of the main point. Joga bonito comes in second.”

Ricky pulled Cristiano closer, pressing his forehead against Cristiano's cheek, “We'll be the best together.”

“My family wants me to--”

Ricky kissed him on the lips in the locker room. It was deserted and it felt like they were the only two people in the World.


	10. War Minus the Shooting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> World Cup 2002.

 Caroline didn't have much else to do after school since Ricky went to South Korea, so she tagged along on Cristiano and Marta's dates. She felt it was a petty form of revenge, since Cristiano used to tag along on her dates with Ricky before Marta filled the Ricky void in Cristiano's life, but worth it, if only to have the knowledge that her presence greatly bothered Cristiano.

Caroline had known Ricky all throughout their childhoods, but it wasn't really until Ricky was playing football that she started liking him. It wasn't because he was playing football, but rather the idea of boys as boyfriends and not as pests had only entered her frame of mind when she was fifteen. There were still some boys, AKA Cristiano Aveiro, who still annoyed her, rather than presented themselves as romantic partners, so at sixteen, she was still a little girl on the inside, even she tried to hide it.

Cristiano and Marta were about to kiss, near the wall where they were waiting for Caroline.

“I hope I'm not interrupting anything,” Caroline said, walking up to them quite cheerfully, intruding on their physical displays of attraction was quickly becoming a habit.

“You're like a human condom,” Cristiano said.

“That's repulsive.”

They saw a movie. All of the ushers and cashiers fawned over Cristiano like he was the second coming. The girl at the snack counter gave Cristiano his popcorn for free, watching after him dreamily, while forcing Caroline to pay, with a dull voice and no politeness.

They went to dinner afterwards, where the waitress cooed after Cristiano, enough for Caroline to feel bad by extension for Marta, who seemed blissfully unaware that women were flirting with her boyfriend right in front of her.

“You'd look weird in maroon,” Marta said, putting her arm around Cristiano, fixing his hair, purposefully looking around for the waitress, hoping to order another Guaraná Antarcica, “You'd only look right in green, yellow, and blue. Don't you think Caroline?”

Was she supposed to comment on the attractiveness of her boyfriend's best friend and her best friend's boyfriend? Was that what Caroline's life had come to while Ricky was in South Korea? When Cristiano was in Germany for his tournament, Caroline didn't force Marta to do anything of the sort. Caroline shrugged.

“My parents are having a party for my brother's birthday. I'm sure I'll see you both there,” Caroline informed them, before they were all to go their separate ways for the night.

Cristiano arrived at her parents' party drunk. Caroline was mad enough to kill him. He wasn't even sly about it; he was clearly intoxicated: his smile was too easy, his hair was even more messed up than usual, and he smelled like a wino. Caroline wouldn't have invited him if her Ricky didn't act as they were siamese twins who had been recently removed from each other, thus forcing her to interact with him on a regular basis. She wouldn't have set up her best friend with him, if Ricky hadn't invited him to every date they went on anyway.  

Caroline didn't even understand it:  all they did was talk about football and how much they loved each other.  Well not really love, Caroline was sure.  Their teammates called Cristiano and Ricky girlfriends and referred to  _Caroline_  as the intruder.  Their teammates never really paid much attention to poor Marta, probably because it was very obvious to everyone but Marta that Cristiano had other female interests occupying his time.  And like his inability to hide his intoxication, he was very bad at hiding his affairs.

Sometimes, in weaker moments, Caroline was jealous of Cristiano. She liked to think that Ricky was hers. That she had his devotion, but sometimes, she felt like there was also something that missing between Ricky and Cristiano that she and Ricky did have. Some boundary she didn't understand, but was subtly existing.

As a good Christian girl growing up, her mother told her never to judge those who she didn't understand, especially those from difficult circumstances. Ricky told her that Cristiano's mother died when he was young and his father was cruel. She knew that he grew up in the favelas. But that didn't mean he had to act like such a child. If anything, wouldn't a difficult life endow the individual with a greater sense of maturity and purpose?

The way he touched Marta infuriated Caroline, usually on her lower back. In fact, most things about Cristiano infuriated her. They clearly had sex. Cristiano was allegedly a Catholic, but he was probably the laziest Catholic that ever lived; she had never heard him talking about going to services once. Marta disappointed her, but Marta could still be saved.  Even though Caroline thought of Marta as her best friend, Marta still wasn't particularly intelligent, allowing herself to get fooled by Cristiano's charms; he was a malandro. Cristiano and Marta stood next to each other and his hand was on her back, parallel to her behind. He laughed at her brother's jokes, even if they weren't funny. He laughed loudly, his voice laden with alcohol.

"You have to ask Cristiano to leave," Caroline told Marta, dragging her to the snack table.

"What? Why?"

"He's drunk. My grandparents are here. You can't get drunk in front of grandparents!"

"Fine. I'll get him out," Marta walked.

Caroline turned around and Cristiano was already talking to her grandparents. They were talking about Portugal, what else was new. When Cristiano was drunk, his accent was thicker; he was almost incomprehensible with his Portuguese accent and suddenly remembered slang.

"Sorry, Avó and Avô. I have to show Cristiano something," she said pulling him by his shirt sleeves out towards the front yard.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his words came out slowly.

"You're drunk! And you're talking to my grandparents! Are you insane?"

"You think your grandparents haven't seen drunk people before? Where do you think they live? Narnia?"

Caroline let out a exasperated shout when they got into the front yard, "Why are you doing this to me? Did the Devil send you? Because all you do is tempt people!"

Cristiano laughed, "Yes, the Devil sent me and I'm doing his naughty deeds by drinking and talking to your family members."

"You are the most frustrating person I have ever met!" she shouted at him.

Cristiano shrugged, "It takes one to know one, huh, Caroline?"

The words escaped her lips before she meant for them to. She wasn't even certain if she meant them, "I would have left you in Brazil, too, if I was your father!"

Something about Cristiano's entire demeanor and shaped altered, even though he hadn't moved a muscle. He didn't say anything to her and just walked away. She didn't even like him, but she knew that she had said the wrong thing. Probably the worst thing, possible. She ran after him, even though she was wearing heels and he was wearing sneakers.

"Cristiano! I'm sorry."

He pushed past her, snarling, "Go fuck yourself, Caroline."

The next morning, Caroline wore her best heels and her pearls and went to his apartment in Butantã. Cristiano opened the door after she knocked; he clearly had just woken up. His hair was out-of-control and he wasn't wearing a shirt. Caroline's words failed her, but Cristiano didn't seem to notice, since he grunted, “Let me get dressed before we start arguing.”

Caroline entered the apartment, which seemed very spartan for someone with a personality like Cristiano's. She sat down the couch and waited. He emerged from his bedroom, wearing a grey-striped t-shirt and jeans. His hair was still untidy. He slouched onto the couch next to her.

“I'm sorry, Cristiano.”

Cristiano shrugged as though he had forgotten what she said.

“You don't have anything to say?” Caroline asked, “You don't want to tell me anything? Apologize for anything?”  
“Don't you ever get tired of acting like you know everything?” Cristiano asked, leaning back, away from her.

“Well, I can't act like you. Not all of us can act like a child all the time.”

"Don't act like me, then. Just stop acting like a fifty year old crone."

"Just because I'm responsible and not…having sex with…everyone I know doesn't mean I act like an old crone."

"You dress like one."

She knew that was what Cristiano did. He needled until someone yelled at him and the offending conversation could be over. Caroline sat up straighter, "You're just immature."

"Jesus."

They got lunch at a café near his apartment. A trio of teenaged girls followed Cristiano and her from his apartment building and waited outside of the café. Cristiano glanced at them, his ego clearly buoyed by their persistent stalking.

"Other than Jesus, school, and Ricky, how do you spend your time?" Cristiano asked, "Judging people really cannot take up that much of your time."

She actually did laugh, but she tried to cover it up with her hand. Cristiano smiled.

They watched all of Brazil's matches together. Cristiano got out of training on game days and school was closed on those same days. Marta got in trouble for having sex with Cristiano, so she was missing from their fun.

“Her father chased me out of the house,” Cristiano told her, playing keep-up with an empty Coca-Cola can, “I was lucky to get out alive.”

She laughed, imagining Senhor Souza waddling after Cristiano, who probably was out of the house before Senhor Souza got to the edge of the stairs. Marta's parents had told Ricky and Caroline's parents. Caroline's parents didn't like Cristiano anyway, so if it meant that he wasn't drunk at family parties, it was perfectly fine with them. The Leites seemed to be the sole defenders of Cristiano, who was a near constant topic of discussion at Church, since people were always trying to convert him. Caroline wasn't sure the importance of converting one boy, but her mother insisted it was because of how popular Cristiano was, like they expected the girls who trailed on every word he said to start converting en masse if he did.

“He's just a misguided boy,” Senhora Leite would say, “He has a good heart.”

“You didn't have worry that he might be your son-in-law,” Senhora Souza would reply, “I doubt he would even take responsibility and marry Marta, if that happened. God forbid.”

“He has a lot of faith. He just doesn't know how to channel it appropriately,” Senhor Leite would say, “He was the only one of Ricky's friends to visit him when he was injured.”

The fact that Cristiano still visited Ricky during his injury was very important to the Leites. Whenever anyone said something bad about Cristiano, they would always bring it up, giving Cristiano, in their minds, license to do whatever he wanted.

“Your son has known him for five years. How long does it take to convert a teenager?”

A sick little feeling of rebellion flittered through her belly when she was with Cristiano. Like he was a leather-wearing biker in old American movies. The reality of Cristiano was far less impressive than movies; he was far too awkward-looking to be like Marlon Brando or James Dean, with his mess of hair, his acne, and his crooked teeth. He was merely one of the few people she knew who didn't expect her to act older than she was and even though, she always tried to act like a grown-up, sometimes she just wanted to do what everyone else in her classes did.

Appearances were always important in her family, like they were in every family. To appear happy and normal was akin to being happy and normal. No one in the Church particularly liked the Aveiros. Everyone knew that Cristiano was from Heliópolis, that his mother was dead, and his father had troubles, but he appeared to have few problems with those big issues, so they could all pretend he was normal and happy. Everyone could pretend they were all happy and normal. Even though she never wanted to admit it, the way Cristiano lived, with his flaws hung on a flag, seemed so appealing and so much better. But everyone wanted to live a certain way and Caroline moved with the crowd.

Caroline would ask Cristiano about if he believed in God and he would shrug, “He's doing kind of a shitty job, isn't He?”

“There are so many beautiful things in the World.”

“There's a lot bad things too.”

“The good things must outnumber the bad.”

“I'll admit. Football is better than any bad thing that could ever happen,” Cristiano sighed, “But my mother named me after Jesus, but it didn't buy her any points with God. Maybe God isn't a Christian.”

One night when her parents were out at some important function, she invited Cristiano over to the house. For some reason, she really wanted to hear his reaction about her bedroom. She didn't understand what she was turning into. Ricky hadn't even seen her room, since Caroline's parents had enforced a rather strict, “no boys allowed” rule.

Caroline almost laughed, seeing Cristiano in her little girl room. He was the opposite of the room.

“This is the room my sister, Cátia, would have wanted if we had money,” Cristiano said, at long last, “I wouldn't have guessed you would have a room like this.”

“Why?”

“Because you seem like a middle-aged businesswoman all the time, you know? If you were a stranger and you walked into this room, do you think it would fit you?”

Caroline shrugged and changed the subject, “What are you doing for the final?”

“There's a bar in Heliópolis that my friends and I watched the last two finals at. I think it's kind of tradition now,” Cristiano replied, sitting on the lacy stool at her vanity, looking up at her, “You can come. Just don't dress like your mother. They'll try to mug you.”

Caroline wore her white cashmere coat, since it was a little cold and overcast and waited at the agreed upon bus stop. He sighed loudly, throwing his hands up into the air. He took off his own jacket, an olive green coat with a fake fur trim on the hood, pushing it into Caroline's hands, “They're going to try to kidnap you like that.”

Cristiano zipped it up for her; his fingers lingered on the zipper. Caroline said, “I could have done that.”

Cristiano shrugged and they got on the bus. He was wearing a yellow kit.

“Are you wearing your own shirt?”

He laughed, turning so Caroline could see “CAFU 2” across his back, “Jesus! How arrogant do you think I am?”

“I think you're pretty arrogant.”

“Lucky for you, I'm not your boyfriend.”

They walked from the bus stop to some rundown bar in a rundown neighborhood. Cristiano led her past drunks in their fold-up chairs on the sidewalks, putting his arm around her shoulders. Two Pardo boys were outside of the bar that Cristiano led her to; they were sharing a cigarette and visibly brightened when they saw Cristiano.

“Ooh! Eusébio! Look at your girl!” the taller one shouted. Cristiano hugged both of them.

“This is my friend's girlfriend, Caroline. He didn't want to watch the final, but she did,” Cristiano said, then pointed at them, “This is Edu and Dico.”

She held out her hand to shake their hands. Dico and Edu just laughed. The taller one, Dico, chuckled as he said, bowing while he shook her hand, “You're a fancy girlfriend.”

In the bar, his old neighbors ruffled his hair, a lot of them shouting at him, “Eusébio! You traitor! How could you play for the Tricolor!”

“Why do they call you Eusébio?”

“Senhorita Caroline,” Edu said, stubbing his cigarette out on the bottom of his sneaker, “You might not know this, but the real Eusébio was the best player from Portugal who ever lived. Not as good as Garrincha or Socrátes, but very good. And this Eusébio is the best player from Portugal we've ever met.”

“I'm the best player you've ever seen,” Cristiano said, tapping Edu on the side of his face.

“We can't start calling you _Pelé_ now, Eusébio. It's way too late for that.”

The bar was loud and crowded. Cristiano kept his arm around her shoulder, probably because everyone was crowded around him and he didn't want her to get pulled away or something, but it was almost pleasant. Ricky and her parents wouldn't have ever forgiven Cristiano. Her parents already disliked him enough without her getting kidnapped in a favela. The bartender shouted, “Eusébio and his girlfriend get a seat up here.”

He shooed a man who was already up at the bar. Cristiano pushed his way through the crowd, holding Caroline's hand.

“I'd tell you to sit down first, but I'd crush you,” he said, sitting on the barstool first. Caroline sat in his lap. It was all so domestic.

The bartender pushed two drinks with limes at the bottom, “Maybe you'll get so drunk you'll lose to Timão in a few weeks.”

“You see, everyone in this neighborhood makes the big mistake that Corinthians is the best team around,” Cristiano said, picking up his glass, swirling the liquid around like it was a fine wine.

“Portuguesa is not the best team around,” the bartender replied, bluntly.

“You can think that, but you're wrong.”

Caroline looked at the glass, uncertainly, “It's eight o'clock in the morning.”

“It's the World Cup!”

Cristiano held his glass towards Caroline, who tapped it with hers, “What do I do?”

“You drink it.”

Ricky didn't play at all. In fact, for a little more than half of the match, Germany maintained possession, fairly easily. But then, Ronaldo, genius King Brazilian Ronaldo scored in the sixty-seventh minute and once more in the seventy-ninth. The bar was so loud that Caroline said something, but Cristiano couldn't hear her.

As the ninetieth minute came closer, the bar got louder. Edu grabbed Cristiano's shoulder near minute eighty-seven. The final was all but won. The ghost of 1998 had fell away. Cristiano nearly fell off of the stool and for a bizarre, frightening, hopeful moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.

“Ricky!” Caroline shouted into the payphone. Cristiano, Edu, and Dico were laughing and shouting to each other, sharing the same cigarette.

“You're a World Cup winner!”

“And I didn't even have to play,” Ricky said. Caroline knew he couldn't see her smile, but she didn't know what to say, how to convey her happiness or Cristiano's happiness, so she smiled into the receiver, listening to the cheers from the other side of the ocean and in Heliópolis.

“Where are you? It's so loud on your end.”

“Marta, Cristiano, and I went to some bar to watch the game. Everyone is so happy. Just wait until you all get back to Brazil. You'll celebrate again.”

Cristiano took her hand after she hung up. And Caroline got drunk for the first time in her life. Miserably and disgustingly drunk.

She woke up in Cristiano's apartment. In his bed. He wasn't in it, which was both a disappointment and a blessing. Everything in her body ached from whatever had happened the night before. She stood up, wobbling a little bit, finding her shoes; they had been white, but became a brackish color from wherever they went the night before.

She never did things like this before. Her teachers always wrote about how mature and responsible she was on her report cards. They all said she was going places with her intelligence. Caroline's parents gave her some reward, like a dress or new shoes, and she thought that's what she wanted.

Cristiano was in the kitchen making himself breakfast, so as Caroline attempted to make a sly exit, he saw her cross the living room.

“Do you need water or anything?” he asked, “Or vitamin B?”

“Vitamin B?”

“If my pai's hangovers are bad, Cátia and I give him that. Fixes him up like that,” he snapped.

“I'd really like that,” Caroline admitted. He found a bottle of tablets and passed her two. He filled a glass with water and passed her that as well. He made her eggs and she went back to her house; her parents weren't home, so their lecture could wait. She was planning on telling them that she was with Marta, anyway. It wasn't until she was in her own bedroom that Caroline realized she still was wearing Cristiano's jacket.


	11. My Lonely Days are Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flying solo.

_What Match to Watch: Botafogo @ São Paulo. Kaká and his own personal Ronaldo will be defending the league from Rio's Botafogo. Both have been on spectacular form and will certainly show off their Joga Bonito for their fans at Morumbi._

Cristiano decided that Caroline displaying signs of a personality was a fluke, not something to take seriously. As far as Cristiano was concerned, she liked football and Ricky, which Cristiano agreed were completely worthwhile pleasures, but that was it. He was going to ignore that she still had his jacket and that he almost kissed her and that she slept in his bed. Cristiano told Ricky most things, but those were among the few secrets that he kept for himself. He had told Hugo and asked him what to do.

“Just fuck her and chuck her.”

Even before he started doing Paco, Hugo's advice was not particularly sensitive. And apparently after Hugo started doing drugs, his advice was mostly useless.

“I'm not sure if you can just fuck and chuck your friend's girlfriend.”

The World Cup victory was good for their attendance figures at Morumbi. There were evidently more fans of the Tricolor than Cristiano had originally thought. Ricky got back from the World Cup a hero, despite only playing twenty minutes in a game that had mostly been decided by the time he came in.

São Paulo didn't get a parade for the victory. There was one in Brasilia. Cristiano had to settle for asking Ricky what playing with Cafu was like. Ricky was perfectly content with reliving the World Cup, so he told Cristiano.

Ricky and Cristiano played the best football that Cristiano had ever subjected himself to. It was like playing with Ronaldinho, Cristiano imagined, but better since it was Ricky. Cristiano took a break from girlfriends after Marta's father chased him out of the Souzas' house. Cristiano had to take the bus in his briefs and no shoes. The bus driver didn't charge him, probably impressed that Cristiano had the gall to get on a public transportation without pants anyway; or so, Cristiano liked to think. It was more likely very clear to all parties involved that Cristiano did not have a wallet or any money. Caroline got his clothes back, so it all worked out in a way. Cristiano was Enemy Number One at the Leites' Church, so any of Ricky and Caroline's mutual friends were out of the question anyway. None of them were trying to convert him anymore, which was a positive.

Elma was at the apartment when Cristiano got back from the Marta fiasco. She and Cátia laughed so hard they both cried, but Cristiano just strutted straight through the main room to his bedroom to get dressed properly.

“Would you ever pull a 'fuck her and chuck her?'” Cristiano asked, not looking at Ricky, but looking at the swirled plaster on Ricky's bedroom ceiling. Ricky leaned back in his desk chair. Ricky had been back in São Paulo for a week before Cristiano got to see him and by then, the desire to learn how winning the World Cup felt went from second-hand to needing to know first-hand. Everyone in São Paulo was falling in love with Ricky, so there were gaggles of girls lingering in front of his parents' house. Cristiano's own trio of groupies had mostly defected to Ricky's followers.

“Do you even know me?”

“It's just something Hugo said.”

Ricky hadn't really met Hugo, even though Cristiano was quite close to his brother. Ricky had met Elma and Cátia and passed by his father once or twice. Hugo was probably just one of those things that Cristiano didn't share. Ricky also hadn't met Edu or Dico and had only been to Heliópolis once. 

“That reminds me,” Ricky said, “Our pastor said that he will take your confessions outside in the Church garden. You're not allowed inside anymore.”

“They should really get over that,” Cristiano said, “I had sex. I didn't kill Marta or anything.”

Ricky rolled his eyes, “So I'm guessing you haven't seen Marta in a while?”

“Not since her father chased me out of their house,” Cristiano said, “In my humble opinion, no girl is worth the embarrassment that I put myself through to get back to my apartment.”

Ricky stared into space for a little bit.

“How do you like being the King of São Paulo?” Cristiano asked.

Ricky shrugged, “It's kind of annoying.”

“You're the only one who wouldn't appreciate every woman in São Paulo being in love with you.”

Ricky shrugged, “Everyone loves you, too, Cristiano.”

The season was going well. They were at the top of the table, resting at number one for three weeks. Rogerio, Manolo, Juliano, Ricky, and everyone thought they could clinch the season, possibly winning the double of the league and the Copa do Brasil. Cristiano had thirteen goals in regular season play, so everyone seemed quite positive.

Things were the same as usual. Ricky's ego didn't explode, as Cristiano envisioned his would. None of the Tricolor players who went to World Cup transferred away, so the team mostly stayed the same. Training was the same as usual. Everyone did their drills and no complaints were made. After they got showered, Cristiano decided he liked Ricky's shirt and so they traded shirts and spent most of the rest of the day together.

It was nice out and cool, so they sat mostly in the Leites' backyard, wasting time until evening training.

“If you ever go to New York, you have to go see the Big Library,” Ricky said, “That's what Cafu said.”

As usual, their conversations drifted centrally around the World Cup and football. At other points in the conversation, they had touched on Manolo's probable, impending transfer, the cute new kit girl, and whether the new Star Wars movie looked any good (Ricky said yes, while Cristiano was reserving his judgement; he thought the one before was kind of stupid, but Ricky liked it).

“You're saying that so I'll attempt to learn something.”

“No, it's a really cool park, they have,” Ricky insisted, “Cafu showed me pictures.”

“He brought his photo album?” Cristiano laughed, reaching out and dragging his fingers through Ricky's hair.

Digão joined them in the backyard. All three of them sat on the old swing set that was still in the yard, even though Digão was seventeen and Ricky was twenty. Digão and Cristiano were the same age, but Digão was still in high school and was planning on going to university. Sometimes, Cristiano wondered what things would have been like if he stayed in school, but decided that dropping out was mostly for the best. He didn't like it all that much, but it always felt like there was something he was missing.

“Cristiano, I need to do a report on immigrants. Can you be my subject?” Digão asked.

“What do you need?”

“Just answer some questions later. Do you mind doing it tonight?”

“That's fine. I'll come around after training.”

Digão tilted his head, “Are you wearing Ricky's shirt?”

Training was the same again. In the evenings, they usually did weights and such, rather than actual football. Life had settled into a rather boring groove after the World Cup, so training hummed along as per usual.

He went to the Leites house afterwards and Digão asked a few questions, very obviously lifted from the assignment page, “Do you feel as though you have assimilated into your adopted culture?”

“What does that even mean?”

“Do you feel Brazilian?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Do you have significant ties to your homeland?”

“You mean, to Portugal?” Cristiano shrugged, “I guess. I'm thinking about playing for Portugal.”

“Like in the World Cup?' Digão leaned forward, speaking quietly, “Ricky'll pitch a fit if he finds that out.”

“Well, then don't tell him.”

“Why? Why don't you want to play for Brazil?”

“It's not that I don't want to play for Brazil. They might not call me up. And my dad wants me to play for Portugal. And all of my cousins want me...”

“But man, Ricky. I know, everyone thinks that he's nice and kind and all Jesus-y, but he wouldn't forgive you if did that. You'd have a better chance fucking Caroline and getting away with it than playing for Brazil.”

Cristiano almost choked on his own saliva. Not that he had ever sex with Caroline. Sure, it had crossed his mind. She looked so good in his bed, even though she had been quite repulsive while drunk, yelling at him about every time he made an inappropriate joke or attempted to flirt with some girl, “You don't even know her! You're disgusting!”

“You didn't, did you?”

“No! Fuck why would I? That's insane.”

Digão squinted at Cristiano, “We're talking about Portugal or Caroline?”

“Both.”

“You didn't have sex with Caroline, right?”

“Jesus! What do you think I am? I'm not that bad of a friend.”

“The Souzas have provided evidence that you are no longer sexually pure,” Digão said. Digão was religious, but not like Ricky, who seemed to be blessed by God personally. Ricky had a weird glow to him, only explained by godliness and light. His smile could end wars, encourage the stingiest Scrooge to donate to charity, and make gumballs fall from the sky like rain. It really wasn't fair. Ricky deserved Caroline, who always looked like she had walked out of a foggy perfume commercial.

“That doesn't mean I had sex with his girlfriend.”

“Do you want to?”

“Have you seen her? You'd have to be a priest not to want to.”

Digão leaned forward, “You're a love rat, aren't you?”

“Shut up. Don't tell Ricky.”

The season continued until suddenly, it seemed, it was the second to last match of the season. And they were playing Corinthians at Morumbi.

It was a rough game. The Corinthians defenders were everywhere. Cristiano barely got a touch on the ball. Ricky kept getting shut down when Corinthians players flocked to his left side. Manolo passed the ball to Cristiano and he was about to go on a break, when he got tackled from behind.

Cristiano pushed himself up, “Puta!”

The player who tackled Cristiano was roughly the size of a refrigerator and clearly only played football because Brazilian rugby had yet to take off and he was not violent enough to go into professional fighting.

“Do you have a problem?” the other player asked, towering over Cristiano, even though Cristiano was quite tall in comparison to most other Brazilians, grabbing Cristiano's collar. Cristiano pulled on the other player's collar.

The player smiled, “You're the fake Brazilian, aren't you?”

Cristiano lunged at the player, his neck suddenly feeling very hot. Someone grabbed Cristiano by the back of the shirt, pulling him back.

“Don't touch him!” Cristiano heard Ricky shout, but he wasn't really sure who Ricky was yelling at.

The referee pulled out a red card and Cristiano stomped off to the bench. São Paulo lost when one of the Corinthians players knocked in a lucky loose ball.

_ESPORTE: TRICOLOR FAITHFUL BLAME C.RONALDO FOR FALL FROM LEAD._

They ended the season in second, since they lost to Fluminese in the last game. Cristiano got new groupies, but they were mostly embittered São Paulo fans who enjoyed yelling at him whenever they got the chance; if he was lucky, they would flip him off and move on. Sometimes, they would throw cups from fast food restaurants still full of soda at him. Cristiano took to finding some random girl and flirting with her whenever he noticed their car in the vicinity; if he was in conversation with women, they tended not to harass him, evidently abiding by the Universal Man Code.

“Maybe you should move back to Heliópolis,” Hugo said, “Everyone around here thinks you're a frustrated Corinthians fan on the inside at the rivals.”

“You want to come with me on holiday?”

“Where are you going?”

“I don't know. New York or something. I've never been there.”

“You know it snows up there in December.”

“I don't want to stick around in São Paulo right now.”

Cristiano bought four roundtrip tickets to New York and Elma did the research for where they were staying. Cristiano's issue was his winter coat. Caroline still had his winter coat, even though it was almost six months after the World Cup. He would have just given up and bought a new jacket, but considering the fact that it was eighty-five degrees in São Paulo, there were no winter coats on sale. Cristiano was half-tempted to just go to New York and buy a new jacket there. He had his suspicions that Digão couldn't keep his trap shut.

“What are you doing here?” Senhora Celico looked at Cristiano liked he was obviously carrying a very contagious disease.

“Caroline has my jacket. Is she home?”

“I'll get it for you,” Senhora Leite shut the door without inviting him in, like Cristiano was an uncontrollable sex maniac and have sex with everything given the opportunity. While that wasn't far from the truth, Cristiano liked to think he had more self-control than people gave him credit for.

The door opened again. Caroline held out Cristiano's green coat, “It's kind of warm out.”

“I'm going on vacation.”

Their fingers touched during the coat transfer. Cristiano grabbed the jacket and ran away.

It didn't snow the entire time they were in New York. All they saw were the grey, icy remnants of snow. New York was much smaller than São Paulo, or it felt smaller anyhow. The towering sky scrapers poked upwards, blotting out the grey sky. There was barely any green, but it was also winter.

“We should try that,” Cátia said. They were sitting at a tiny round table in a park in front of the big library, watching ice skaters on a small rink. There were little stands all around the park selling trinkets, mostly scarves and Christmas ornaments for trees.

“You can if you want. I'm not trying it,” Cristiano said as another skater crashed into the rink wall.

“You're too young to be no fun anymore, Cristianinho,” Elma flicked his ear.

“You can start working based on how often you don't break your leg, too, you know.”

Some people from another table started speaking in English to Elma, Hugo, and Cátia. Cristiano watched the skaters get twisted up around each other.

“Cristiano, who won Serie A?” Elma asked, breaking from the conversation with the English speakers.

“Santos.”

The skaters did look like they were having fun.

When they went back to São Paulo, Cristiano's nerves were soothed. Hugo didn't seem as skinny as he usually was, as he was usually living off of a diet of drugs and cereal, but got full meals in New York. He said, “I liked New York. You should play there in a few years.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Ricky didn't call him when he got back to São Paulo. Cristiano figured that he probably was doing a mission or self-flagellating or whatever his Church asked him to. Cristiano didn't see Ricky for the entire summer until training started up again. He spent most of his time with Peixinho down in Santos.

“Did you go on a mission or something?” Cristiano asked, sitting down next to Ricky on the bench. Ricky was pulling up his socks. Cristiano just had to tie his laces, but he figured he could do that sitting next to Ricky.

“No.”

“Where were you? I didn't hear from you the entire break.”

Ricky shrugged.

“Are you in one of your questioning morality things? Is this why you're not talking to me?”

“I'm talking to you right now. I'm talking to you.”

“Did you break up with Caroline again?”

“Why don't you ask her?”


	12. The Sun's Been Quite Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good luck.

 Despite whatever got into Ricky, he was still playing the same as usual. He still passed to Cristiano, so that had to be worth something, whatever it meant. Peixinho got called up when Manolo went off to Europe.

“So this is what you team killers do? You hang around with the same team?” Peixinho asked. The ending of the previous season was an open wound, unable to scab. Peixinho didn't mean anything bad by it. All of the headlines that Cristiano was ever in had to do with that red card and how he should be sold to a Serie B team for punitive measures.

Ricky got to be the pride of São Paulo, though. Ricky didn't have to worry about representing Brazil; he was born there, it was already decided by fate that he would play for Brazil. Even though Cristiano put off playing in the World Cup for Portugal, he still hadn't been called up for Brazil's senior squad. Not even for a friendly. Cristiano never felt less worthy than standing with Ricky during the national anthem. Especially since during the three month break, the Tricolor fans had developed a new chant for Cristiano, revolving around calling him “Portuguese scum,” making reference to him “raping Brazil for all its worth.” Cristiano didn't think getting sent off was quite that tragic, but he had never been much a Tricolor fan.

“The newspapers say you're going to be very good,” his father said, “Why don't you play for the senior national team yet?”

“They haven't called me up.”

“Not even Portugal?”

Cristiano shrugged.

_LANCE!: FANS CALL FOR C.RONALDO SALE._

Even despite what the São Paulo fans said, Cristiano was a starter. The season started off well. They were doing the usual, winning more than they were losing. They had qualified for the Copa Libertadores because of their performance from the previous season. They came in top for their group in that, so things were falling together.

Ricky was still acting like a nut, training with Júlio and sitting with Rogerio on the bus, praying all the time. Cristiano mostly sat and trained with Peixinho, who asked, “Did you break up with your girlfriend or something, Aveiro?”

“Yeah, we cut up our friendship bracelets and he gave back the ring.”

“Poor Cristiano, huh?” Peixinho tapped Cristiano on the cheek.

To take his mind off of Ricky, Cristiano decided to go after the cute kit girl. Her name was Rafaela and she was kind of odd, but Cristiano always prioritized his genital reaction over intellectual attraction, so it was barely a problem.

They were at some restaurant for dinner, when Cristiano realized that Rafaela might be the kind of girl to murder him with a nail file if he broke up with her. She was giggling when she noticed that everyone was looking at their table, “Isn't it so weird that you're going out with me?”

“Why is it weird?” Cristiano had had sex with uglier girls; she was quite pretty, even outside of the locker room, environment, where there was enough testosterone floating around to make a book with a hole cut in it look appealing. Rafaela was no genius, but she could string enough words together to make complete sentences. In effect, she was perfectly acceptable.

“Because you're Cristiano Ronaldo.”

She ate her hamburger, looking quite pleased with herself, “It's a good thing everyone hates you. That way no one will try to steal you away from me.”

Ricky eventually began communicating with Cristiano via the rest of the team They were grown men playing telephone.. Digão cracked. Cristiano knew it.

They were away in Rio de Janeiro against Flamengo when Ricky and Cristiano got assigned to the same hotel room. Apparently, their manager subscribed to the psychology that made _The Parent Trap_ the accurate study in reconciliation it was.

Cristiano was the first one in the room and took the bed closer to the door, as well as turning on the television. Ricky crossed the room and flopped onto his bed. He took a Bible with a maroon cover on it out of his suitcase and started reading.

“Can you turn the television down?”

“You need to concentrate on the Bible?” Cristiano turned down the television, “Wouldn't want to spoil the big surprise ending to that one.”

“Don't you take anything seriously?” Ricky snapped. It was no mistaken tone. He was actually snappish.

“What's wrong with you? I was trying to joke.”

“You're the immature one. You don't take anything seriously.”

“How don't I take things seriously?”

“Leave me alone, Cristiano.”

“No. I want to know what I did. Is it because of the red card? I think I've been punished by enough people by now for that.”

“It's because you had sex with my girlfriend.”

“What?”

“You had sex with Caroline.”

“I never had sex with Caroline.” The sad distinction between wanting to and getting to was the action. “Did she say I did?”

“There were hints,” Ricky shut his Bible, narrowing his eyes in disbelief at Cristiano.

“Well, I didn't. I wouldn't anyway.”

“Why would I believe you?”

“Because I love _you_ , you fucking moron.”

The final confrontation ended it. Ricky still tiptoed around the situation. Around the argument that never existed over an issue that never happened. The others on the team said that the boyfriends reconciled and that they could all breathe again. Cristiano liked to think he didn't act out of the ordinary before the hotel room situation, but maybe Ricky's bad mood had rubbed off on him.

They floated through the first knockout round, their heads still above water.

It came during March. He was waiting for his drivers' test when his cell phone rang. He didn't even check the number on the screen before answering. The others waiting for their drivers' tests looked up at him quite alarmed by Cristiano's celebration. He kissed the girl who sat next him. Everyone said it was okay, since it wasn't every day they met a Seleção player on the licensing line. He failed his test and took the bus back to his apartment.

_ESPORTE: PORTUGAL-BORN C.RONALDO CALLED UP FOR SELEÇÃO._

Not even phallic symbols drawn on his face on bus stop posters could remove Cristiano's good mood. He sat on the bench for most of his first game, which was against Peru, but in the eighty-fourth minute, they substituted him on for Mendes and Cristiano felt like the best player in the World, better than Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Cafu, Ricky, and Roberto Carlos combined.

Ricky wasn't called up, but it was only a friendly and it wasn't particularly important. Cristiano only played for six minutes, but again it didn't matter. They were the best six minutes of his life.

The bus stop near his apartment had a Tricolor advertisement poster of Cristiano, Ricky, and Luís Fabiano advertising for season tickets. Someone had drawn a mustache on Cristiano's face as well as a penis on his cheek, but had given Ricky a halo. Even the graffiti in São Paulo was becoming better. The whole World seemed better.

Someone did shout, “Portuguese scum!” out of their car window as they drove by the bus stop, but Cristiano waved. They weren't the ones who got to play for the Brazilian National Team, were they?

Even though Ricky, Júlio Baptista and Cristiano were all due to go to the United States for the CONCACAF Gold Cup, the Seleção manager gave them permission to play in their last Copa Libertadores match before the tournament in America began.

They played Independiente Medillín from Colombia, who were doing pretty well considering that Pablo Escobar was no longer funding their team. Late in the second half, it was still zero-zero, but Ricky crossed the ball to Cristiano, who didn't have a clear shot. He passed it, in turn, to Luís Fabiano, who tapped it in past the poor Independiente Medillín keeper.

The Copa Libertadores was theirs and the assist was Cristiano's.


	13. I Crossed an Ocean for a Heart of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2003 CONCACAF Gold Cup.

 Brazil's first two games of the tournament were in Mexico at el Estadio Azteca. They lost their first game to Mexico. It wasn't a bad loss. It was one goal late in the game; they happened, but Cristiano couldn't get through the Mexican defense. Diego, Ewerthon, Robinho, and Ricky couldn't either.

The day after the game, they had training in the morning and afterwards, they were allowed to traverse Mexico City. Júlio Baptista and Cristiano waited for Ricky to leave the hotel, armed with maps of the city, looking like an overwhelmed tourist father; they sat on a low stone wall on the opposite side of the street.

Ricky came outside, dragging Thiago Motta along with him, playing the part of bored son perfectly. Thiago was one of the two European-based players. Ewerthon played for Borussia Dortmund, but he had played for Corinthians the year before, so he was hanging around with Dyego Coehlo, who currently played for Corinthians. Thiago played for Barcelona, but Cristiano didn't know whether or not he ever played for a Brazilian team.

“Did you guys know that Thiago was from São Bernardo do Campo?” Ricky asked, weirdly excited for them to meet yet another Paulistano. Half of the team was from São Paulo State, with half of that half actually coming from the city. They were in Mexico, surely it was more exciting to meet Mexicans than to meet yet another Brazilian from a state that housed forty-one million people.

Instead of chasing the local female population, Ricky led them to a museum and Cristiano wandered around the halls, looking at paintings he didn't understand. Everyone was speaking Spanish. Cristiano caught some, but Spanish was different enough from Portuguese that he didn't understand most of it.

A guard yelled at him for something, but Cristiano just shrugged and walked out of the gallery.

Cristiano sat in the lobby of the museum, waiting for Júlio, Thiago, and Ricky to finish up. He was not much of an art person. Particularly art labeled in Spanish. There were kids maybe around Cristiano's own age out the front door, fooling around on the plinth of the big horse statue. They certainly did not speak Portuguese.

“You didn't get it either?” Thiago Motta sat down next to him.

“Ricky likes doing cultural things.”

Thiago nodded.

“Do you like playing for Barcelona?” Cristiano asked.

Thiago shrugged, “Frank Rijkaard's a legend, so yeah.”

“I think I'd want to play for Real Madrid. You can't be Ronaldo without being a galáctico.”

Thiago said, “You can't turn into Ronaldo without stopping at Barça first.”

The next day, they played against Honduras. They won pretty easily, sailing past them. Cristiano scored his first international goal for the senior team. They were all U-23 players, but the tournament was being counted as a senior international cap, so according to FIFA, Cristiano was as Brazilian as Pelé.

The next day after their victory over the not-so-mighty Honduras, they had to wait around to see if Mexico lost to Honduras. Ricky led the Paulista contingent of the team on another boring tour of Mexico City, presumably to another museum where they could look at old televisions.

Cristiano decided that laying out on the grass in the nearby park was a better use of his time. He did bring a comic book, but he left it in the grass when he saw some guys his age playing football.

“Jogar futebol com vocé?” Cristiano attempted.

“Eh?”

“Jogar...fútbol? Com vocé?”

“Sí, sí.”

The other guys weren't real competition, but it was relaxing. Liberating. The ball bobbled around, the players lost possession easily. Cristiano was half-tempted to chip the ball into the makeshift garbage can-shoe goal from his half every time he got it and show off. But it wasn't the point to show off. It was just to enjoy the ball at his feet and not worry.

“¿De donde eres?”

That little bit of Spanish, Cristiano did get, “Brasil.”

The next day, after Mexico tied against Honduras, the Brazilian team flew to Miami. Poor Colombia came up against Brazil. A few of the players from the Colombian team were even from Independiente Medellín. Cristiano scored one and Ricky scored another. Cristiano probably would have felt bad if he didn't enjoy winning quite so much. The next game wasn't for a week.

After training, Cristiano, Thiago, Diego, and Dyego went to the beach, while Ricky took others on another museum tour, probably of the history of cocaine, or whatever else the city was famous for. Most of Cristiano's own knowledge of Miami was from _Scarface_.

“We should go look for Tony Montana's house,” Diego said, “You think they filmed the movie around here?”

“Did you see the end of that movie? The gangsters fucked it up good,” Dyego hit Diego on the back of his head.

“It's too bad no one in America watches football,” Thiago said, “I don't think I'd say no to living on a beach like this.”

“The beaches in Santos are better,” Diego replied. Cristiano silently agreed.

“How's playing at Barcelona? How great is it to play in Europe?” Dyego asked.

Thiago shrugged.

“I'd rather play for Real Madrid,” Dyego laughed, “All the great Brazilians end up at Real Madrid.”

“I don't know. Any team in Europe looks good enough for me,” Diego said.

“Barcelona or Real, Cristiano?”

“Real Madrid. I have to join the big Ronaldo one day.”

They played the United States in the semi-finals. Cristiano got a brace and Diego scored from a penalty.

The World curled upwards and good fortune seemed like it would never end. They went back to Estadio Azteca to play against Mexico again.

The game was a rough one. Mexico wasn't as easy as the United States to crack. Their defense was still hard to break. Diego passed it to Cristiano, but he didn't have any good position. He tried to dribble, gave up and saw that Ricky had drifted unmarked into the penalty box. Cristiano crossed it and Ricky headed it in.

Cristiano ran to Ricky, who jumped up into his arms, so Cristiano's face was buried in Ricky's belly.

Mexico didn't get a goal in response and the Brazil U-23 team had beaten big-time players from Mexico.

Cristiano stayed at the hotel with Ricky; they were roommates in Mexico, so no one could barge in without knocking. The others mostly went out to the clubs to celebrate. They had a bottle of rum from the bar downstairs. The victory with the U-23 team was much sweeter than the one with the U-19 team, probably because it was with Ricky and everything felt better when Ricky was around, or least it usually did.

“I miss this,” Cristiano mumbled into Ricky's mouth, “I miss just being with you and no one else being around.”

“Me, too,” Ricky said, fairly intoxicated, his eyelids were drooping with drunkenness. His left hand was on Cristiano's thigh, very close to his pelvic junction. Teasingly close. His right hand was stuck in Cristiano's hair, behind his head, tangled up in the curls.

Cristiano kissed Ricky's neck, biting down and sucking. Ricky and Cristiano kissed the entire night. The next morning, Cristiano woke up first; Ricky's arm was tossed across Cristiano's chest.

Ricky wore turtlenecks when they got back to São Paulo. He showed Cristiano the hickey that Cristiano had created; it was one of the ugliest that Cristiano had ever produced. The size of a golf ball and streaked with teeth marks. He was proud of it, in a way.

One night Cristiano's father got home from wherever he usually went early, while Cristiano was still up, watching television. He stood in the living room, watching the screen absently. Cristiano could smell the booze off of him from where he sat on the other side of the room. Even so, his father said, “I'm proud of you. Even if you play for the wrong team.”

Cristiano decided it was the best compliment he was probably going to receive from his father and kept it in the reserves of his mind proudly.

Cristiano went back to driving lessons after training sessions, since his failure was seemed to be more than just because he was very excited about the Seleção. The day after he passed, he drove to the training grounds.

Ricky didn't come to training.

Peixinho asked conspiratorially, “Did you hear about Kaká?”

“What about Kaká?” The way that Peixinho spoke, Cristiano half-expected Ricky to be dead. Or at least grievously injured. Unable to feed himself, relying on Cristiano to survive in the cruel world that would probably love him even more were he to actually get paralyzed. He'd be the brave warrior São Paulo always wanted. Cristiano wouldn't even be allowed to be responsible for shoving apple sauce down Ricky's gullet; one of the Ricky faithful would be. One of Ricky's followers would probably ban Cristiano from all of that.

“He got transferred to AC Milan.”

That was probably worse.

Cristiano had nearly ripped his own hair out by the time training was over. Cristiano parked half on the sidewalk in front of Ricky's parents' house. It was entirely possible that he had only passed his licensing test because of the CONCACAF Gold Cup result, but it wasn't like Cristiano was going to argue with it.

“Have you come to say good bye to Ricky, Cristiano?” Senhora Leite had answered the door.

“He's actually leaving?”  Cristiano was already halfway in their house by the time he actually spoke.

“Cristiano, relax! You're going to give yourself a heart attack!” she shouted after him. Cristiano took the stairs three at a time. He was in Ricky's room in record time. Caroline was sitting on Ricky's bed, while Ricky was kneeling on the floor over open suitcases.

“I heard that you're leaving from Peixinho.”

“You should really turn on your cell phone.”

Caroline rolled her eyes and stood up, “Well, this is probably going to turn into a hair braiding party, so I'll just leave before it gets weird.”

She hugged Ricky awkwardly before leaving, like they never even hugged before.

Cristiano punched Ricky's shoulder lightly, “Look at you, you scoundrel. Hugging girls. Her breasts touched you, you malandro.”

“Shut up, Cristiano. Are you here to bust on me about going to Italy or what?”

Cristiano kicked the door shut and kissed Ricky.


	14. Jesus Loves You More Than You Will Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without him.

 Ricky left Brazil on a Saturday, while São Paulo had a match in Campinas against Ponte Preta. There were probably more Tricolor fans at the airport seeing Ricky off than there were at the match.

They lost. Peixinho played in Ricky's old position. It wasn't the same; it didn't quite feel right.

A week after Ricky left, Cristiano rejoined the rest of humanity, who had moved on quickly. Marta's parents had apparently loosened up on her punishment from the year before and were going to Brasilia for some Church conference without her. She was having a party at their house and Cristiano got an invitation through some convoluted method of communication.

It was mostly rich kids from Pinheiros, who went to Caroline and Marta's high school. Even though he was the same age as them, Cristiano felt oddly old. Like he was jaded with more life experience, even though much of his life experience was playing football and lazing around on a beach someplace, while they went to school and learned how to do calculus or whatever. They probably even went on field trips to museums, too, while Cristiano only went to museums because of Ricky.  He didn't actually learn anything at them.

“Marta has a new boyfriend, you know,” Caroline sat down next to Cristiano on the Souzas couch in the living room. Other people were dancing. When he first got there, the other guests were torn between asking for autographs and throwing him snide looks, even though Cristiano did help São Paulo win the Copa Libertadores after the late season disaster of last year. A season killer wasn't an easy reputation to shake, apparently. Some of them did inform Cristiano that he was “Portuguese scum.” Evidently everyone in the entire country knew the one guy who deserved the spot that Cristiano took on the Brazilian team.

“Is he as good-looking as me?”

Caroline rolled her eyes and pushed his shoulder.

“If he's approved by Kommandant and Frau Souza, I doubt it,” Cristiano answered for her.

“You're impossible.”

“How's life minus Ricky? Finally getting some action?”

Caroline replied, “How's life without your boyfriend?”

“Pretty decent. I expect he'll be sending me a post card soon. 'Dear Cristiano...'”

“Dearest Cristiano, 'Even though we are almost married under the laws that govern Brazil, I must say life in Milan is amazing without you. I don't miss you. Kisses, Ricky,'” she mimed typing it out.

Marta and her useless noodle of a boyfriend came over, giggling and holding each other. A little knife of jealousy bit at Cristiano's toes. Cristiano felt jealousy and possessive a lot. He wasn't sure if he just had poor self-control or he was truly and emotionally involved with a multitude of people. That multitude of people not including Rafaela. Being around Ricky and Caroline was the worst. Before the World Cup, Cristiano just wanted Caroline to leave them alone, so Cristiano could tempt Ricky in peace. After the World Cup, Cristiano wanted both of them to include him in their boyfriend-girlfriend activities. Preferably at the same time, but Cristiano wasn't going to hasten what was never going to happen anyway.

“I'm Kevin,” the boyfriend said, holding out his hand.

“Cristiano, her ex-boyfriend and famous footballer.”

Caroline elbowed him. It was almost a challenge. By the end of the night, Cristiano was in Marta's bed, pressing kisses into an anonymous girl's hair. Kevin and Marta came into the room to start their own tryst. Marta screamed wordlessly, hitting at him with weak fists, while Kevin stood in the doorway, confused.

Rafaela was still technically his girlfriend. After she started stealing his clothes, with the explanation of “They remind me of you,” Cristiano was starting to realize that she would probably start stealing his hair as well, for similar reasons. He began avoiding her, but since they shared a place of work, it was hard to not see her. She would wave at him, , though Cristiano usually engineered a new conversation with the closest human being whenever Rafaela tried to talk to him; it was rough, pretending to be interested in Lorenzo, the binman's, psoriasis flare-ups, but Cristiano withstood it.

Caroline and Cristiano got dinner together at least once a week since Ricky was out of the country and Cristiano was avoiding Rafaela. Marta was understandably bitter and refused Caroline's invitation, which Cristiano secretly thought was amazingly bold and cruel of her.

“You are a real piece of shit.”

Cristiano shrugged, “His name is Kevin. Honestly, he deserves every disaster that happens to him.”

“You get sex revenge because your ex-girlfriend is dating a boy named Kevin?”

“It's sexvengence, thank you very much and yes, I did and I probably will again.”

“What's wrong with Kevin?”

“It's a stupid name. Do his parents think he's American or something?”

“But what about Marta? You really hurt her feelings.”

“She's voluntarily going out some guy named Kevin; her feelings should have been hurt already. You don't listen to me, do you?”

Caroline swatted at him, “You are disgusting.”

_LANCE!: TRICOLOR FALLS TO FIFTH PLACE. PORTUGUESE RONALDO IS THEIR ONLY HOPE._

São Paulo was missing a vital piece, no one would argue that otherwise. It wasn't like Ricky was their captain, but he had been Brazil's golden boy, so the entire country mourned his escape to Italy. Rogerio was the only one who could rival Ricky in deification in São Paulo, but Rogerio had been on the senior team since before Cristiano's family even arrived in Brazil, so he had plenty of time to build up his own personal cult. The weird pressure being placed on Cristiano wasn't really fair, in his humble estimation. They had plenty of good players. São Paulo hadn't been “Kaká and ten other guys.” And it hadn't become “the much hated C.Ronaldo and ten other guys.”

In early November, Cristiano broke his leg when he got tackled in a match against Náutico. Missing the end of the season was becoming something of a tradition, so Cristiano sat in the stands with his crutches, slumped, watching the last game of the season. They lost to Flamengo and finished the season in sixth. Halfway through the second half, the crowd started a rousing chant of “Portuguese scum” when the team was two down and Cristiano slumped down even further.

Since he was unable to train or play, he spent most of his time hanging around. With his siblings, Rafaela, Peixinho, Caroline, and in one instance Edu and Dico. There wasn't much to do without football. Peixinho got busy with training for the Intercontinental Cup, which São Paulo was invited to because they won the Copa Libertadores. With Cristiano's assist. Peixinho barely played in the Copa Libertadores, but he got to go to Japan with the rest of the team to play in the Intercontinental Cup.

Instead, Cristiano got to stay in São Paulo, avoiding his own girlfriend and waking up before 8:30 to watch a game he had earned the right to play in. When he realized that Ricky was going to play in the Cup with Milan, Cristiano almost chipped off the cast himself and declared himself healthy. Caroline came over to watch the match with rocambole.

“Poor Cristianinho,” Caroline tapped his cheek, “How miserable are you?”

“On the verge of suicide.”

Caroline sighed at him again, but she sat down next to him anyway.

“Ricky bought me a plane ticket to go to Japan, but I told him I had a school thing to do this week.”

“Why'd you do that?” Cristiano searching the reserves of his mind for reasons not to go to football games, only finding stomach viruses and Corinthians games as the potential answers.

“I didn't feel like going. I'm the worst girlfriend, aren't I?”

“I almost had sex with a random girl in my ex-girlfriend's bed, while I have another girlfriend. I think we know who the real winner is in this room.”

“You do always make me feel better about being a bad person.”

“I'm not that bad of a person.”

“I know,” she pet his knee, letting her hand linger there.

It was a dangerous position he was in. He could give into his baser instincts and kiss his best friend's girlfriend. Or he could take the moral high ground and not kiss her at all, since she was his best friend's girlfriend, after all. But Ricky already got mad at him for possibly having sex his girlfriend, even though Cristiano had used up his previous reserve of self-control to not kiss her in the bar during the World Cup; it would serve him right, if Cristiano did. If he did kiss her. Ricky was the love rat, anyway. He was the one who had a girlfriend while also kissing Cristiano. Ricky was the one who never said “I love you” back. Everyone said that Ricky was the good one, but at least Cristiano loved completely. At least he admitted it, when he loved someone.

Before Ricky left, Cristiano had asked why he chose Milan. Ricky said that it was because they had history and that they played beautiful football.

“So, it's not about winning?”

“Not everything is about winning. Being a part of a good squad is much more important. You know that.”

Cristiano's own hand had drifted onto Caroline's thigh, in a fit of absence of mind. Cristiano pulled his hand away and turned on the television to watch the match. Caroline pulled her hand away as well.

The Italian National Anthem was playing as the camera closed in on each of the AC Milan players. It panned and Ricky's face filled Cristiano's television screen. Both Caroline and Cristiano took sharp breaths and moved away from each other. 

His father came out of his room and saw that a match was starting.

“It's early for a game.”

“It's in Japan,” Cristiano replied, “You're up early.”

“Have work at eleven.”

Milan scored early and scored often. It was a miserable game. Cristiano's father left halfway through the second half, after the “Portuguese scum” chant started. Luís Fabiano couldn't get anything through the Milan defense.

“No one's signed your cast,” Caroline said, picking up a pen off of the side table, as Andriy Shevchenko scored another goal on Rogerio. The camera closed in on Ricky and Shevchenko as they hugged like they had known each other for a life time. Every muscle in Cristiano's body tensed and contracted. Caroline pushed down on his knee, so she could sign his cast. She drew a flower underneath her name.

“They really do need you, huh?” Caroline said. The scoreline did much to flatter Milan.

“They need Ricky more,” Cristiano murmured. Peixinho lost the ball whenever he could. He couldn't distribute up to Luís Fabiano. Peixinho wasn't the reason why they were at the Cup anyway. He didn't have a chance to play against the best of South America, let alone AC Milan.

The fans were shouting “Portuguese scum” like Cristiano was there and fucking up the whole game. But it was appropriate enough anyway.

Luís Fabiano and Paulo pushed forward and Luís got on a break. It almost seemed like something could possibly go right. Caroline unconsciously grabbed Cristiano's leg. She grabbed tantalizingly close to his dick, right on his upper thigh. His toes curled, even inside of his cast. It was like she didn't even know that you weren't supposed to touch there without consequences. Well, Ricky probably didn't have a reaction. As if they even touched inappropriately anyway. The closest Ricky and Caroline got was playing Gin Rummy and their hands banged into each other while dealing.

Luís got dispossessed right in front of Milan's goal and the momentum died immediately. Caroline looked at her hand and then, made eye contact with Cristiano. Cristiano was not proud of his nether response, but in his defense, hands typically didn't get that close without ulterior motives. They wordlessly decided if they never spoke about it again, it never happened.

The match ended at a miserable 4-0, with a Shevchenko hat trick and a bonus goal from Pippo Inzaghi.

Cristiano had to go for an appointment with the doctor a week before Christmas. They said he was healed and cut the cast off, which meant physical therapy and sticking around in São Paulo for the winter.

Ricky was welcomed back to the city like he had solved the favela problem, won the World Cup, and resurrected Ayrton Senna. All by himself. The same weekend Ricky got back, Juventus came calling for Cristiano, but they gave up for whatever reason. He almost wanted to wear the black and white of Juventus.

_LANCE!: AC MILAN AFTER C.RONALDO._

_ESPORTE: TRANSFER RUMORS SURROUND CRISTIANO RONALDO._

“Are you coming to Milan?” Ricky asked, ruffling Cristiano's hair when they were at Ricky's parents' house. Ricky's stuff wasn't in his bedroom anymore. There was just a bed and some old clothes. Ricky's family, his grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins were all there, welcoming him back to the country. All of them were witness to Cristiano's guilt, but didn't know it.

“I haven't heard from them.”

“You should visit Italy before the season starts. You'd really like Sheva.”

Shevchenko was apparently Sheva. Bitterness swelled in his stomach.  They were apparently close enough to have nicknames.  Shevchenko probably called him Ricky, instead of Kaká, too.

“Why do you want me to go to Milan? Shevchenko's probably a better forward than I am.”

“Because I like playing with you and you're the best,” Ricky said simply, as though his words were incontrovertible fact. He stroked Cristiano's hair, “When I was injured, you said we'd be the best together. When you get to Milan, everyone will forget about Zidane and Ronaldo and Figo and the Galácticos. Because we'll be playing together. Because we're the best.”

It was almost endearing how stupid and oblivious Ricky could be sometimes. It made Cristiano question whether or not Ricky actually graduated from high school.

Cristiano shrugged and went back to his apartment. Training started again and a new season was on the horizon. AC Milan never came calling for him. And it didn't really bother him for an intangible reason that he couldn't explain.


	15. I am a Rock, I am an Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living out a romantic comedy.

Cristiano turned nineteen when the season began. Caroline came back from a trip to Italy with a big diamond engagement ring.

“I'm really happy,” she said, not to Cristiano, but to the air in between them at the restaurant. She chewed on her lip.

“Do you want to teach me English?” Cristiano asked, unable and unwilling to think about Ricky no longer being his alone.

“Teach you what?”

“I've been think it's a good idea to learn another language. You're the smartest person I know, so I figured I'd ask you.”

Caroline bought him a text book with a cartoon dog and cat on the cover. The cat had a monocle and a top hat, while the dog had a surf board. Once a week, they did exercises and Caroline liked correcting his work and exerting the most minor examples of power.  She loved a red pen.

Meanwhile, at São Paulo, Peixinho's contract got sold to Marítimo on Madeira. He called Cristiano, “You know, they hate you here.”

“Say hello to my cousins. They're half of the local population.”

“They must hate you, too.”

“I wouldn't be surprised. They're Nacional fans, though, so be kind to Nacional.”

The “Portuguese scum” chant was sung at least once a game. They were in the middle table, despite Luís Fabiano and Cristiano both trying their best. Even while called the “Portuguese scum,” Cristiano got called up for qualification matches for Brazil.

During the week, after training, he spent most of his time with Caroline. In addition to his English lessons, she was also dragging him around São Paulo for wedding stuff. At every cake tasting and band interview, Cristiano had to confirm that he was not getting married. Caroline almost looked insulted a few times.

“Senhor Ronaldo,” the person would say, “I didn't read that you were engaged.”

“We're not together. We're just friends,” Cristiano would say, not bothering to correct the fact that his last name wasn't Ronaldo. 

“I'm not getting married for a while,” Cristiano said when they left a caterer's office.

“Why not?”

“I'm nineteen. Why would I want to get married right now?”

“I'm going to be eighteen. Is it wrong to want to get married young?”

“I don't need to get married young. I'm not a virgin.”

“You think everything comes down to sex, don't you?”

“It usually does.”

She rolled her eyes.

They were in the Copa Libertadores due to the win from the previous year. They made it out of the group stages fairly easily, beating a Chilean team and a Peruvian team. They were climbing the table little by little towards as Autumn slipped past.

Cristiano was walking back from the sporting good store near his apartment, picking up new shinguards and K-tape. A girl slipped in a puddle in front of him and Cristiano caught her from behind. It was Caroline. Of course it was.

“Thank you, so much sir!” Caroline twisted around, “Oh, it's you.”

“I was hoping to pick up a new girlfriend right now, so don't sound too disappointed.”

“Catching girlfriends, now Cristiano? That's a bit optimistic for you.”

“It was just like out of a movie. Catching a girl from falling in a giant puddle? You would have loved it if Ricky did that for you.”

She smirked, “You have so much to learn about women, Cristiano Aveiro.”

“I do fine for myself, Caroline Celico.”

She went her way and Cristiano went his.

They were in fifth when Cristiano got a hat trick against Palmeiras. They chanted “Portuguese scum,” but it almost sounded fond. Luís Fabiano and he had developed a new celebration dance by the game was over. Rogerio was so happy when the game was over he split his lip from smiling so much.

The next time they met to work on English, Caroline got up to get juice out of the refrigerator at the same time Cristiano's pot of water for his pasta started to boil. They bumped into each other and Caroline spilled orange juice down the front of Cristiano's shirt and pants. They stared at the orange puddle that was forming at their feet.

“This isn't like a movie,” Cristiano said loudly.

“I know. So not a movie.”

He went to his room to change his clothes and they went back to work on English. Cristiano couldn't make eye-contact.

Luis Fabiano got a brace away at Belo Horizonte, playing Atletico Mineiro. Rogerio had a clean sheet and they moved up to fourth. Luis Fabiano started a fight with one of the Mineiro players and he got a red card, but it didn't matter, since it felt like the World was bending to the will of São Paulo FC.

Ricky called him after the Atletico Mineiro game, congratulating him. They were still on the bus, so Luis, Paulo, Rogerio, and a few others were shouting at the little receiver of Cristiano's phone. Cristiano called him back after they got off the bus.

“It seems like your season is going well.”

“I think it is.”

“When do you think you're coming to Europe?”

“I don't know. Why?”

“I think Ancelotti wants to purchase your contract. We'll play together again,” Ricky said. Cristiano wasn't sure if he could do it. If he could be on Ricky's team while wanting to be with both Ricky and Ricky's future wife. Cristiano was already pretty certain that he had been replaced by Shevchenko; he barely had any intention of ever meeting Shevchenko, let alone becoming his teammate. It was like the Universe was playing an unfunny joke on him.

The next time they went to a restaurant, the waiter confused Caroline for Cristiano's girlfriend. It was all usual. They left, but it had started to rain. Cristiano gave her his jacket and they ran to his car, as some of his new groupies were jogging after them.

They sat in the car, laughing. Her hair was wet and stringy and her makeup was all smeared, even though she had his jacket. She was laughing and she looked more beautiful than usual. And Cristiano had the overwhelming desire to kiss her. For the most part, it was an absent desire; it usually was present, but could easily be ignored. He started driving and shoved down all emotions for a moment.

“That was kind of like a movie,” she said.

“It kind of was, wasn't it?”

“This is the part of the movie that the hero would kiss me. But we're not in a movie, so that won't happen.”

The Universe definitely was playing an unfunny joke on him. It was almost a dare.

Cristiano dropped her off in front of her house and he rested his forehead on the steering wheel, wondering if God was playing a prank. If this was retaliation for almost having sex in Marta's bed without Marta. Or possibly it was retaliation for breaking up with Rafaela by simply not answering her calls or spending any time with her.

São Paulo played Santos in May for the Paulistano Championship. It wasn't a particularly important trophy, but whenever there was a chance to beat Santos, it was always welcomed. It was a nil-nil until sixty minutes in. They were defending a corner kick when Paulo knocked the ball free and Cristiano got control of it. He was dribbling up the field, feeling very much like Garrincha. Cristiano crossed it to Luís Fabiano who headed it in. Luis Fabiano returned the favor and the next time they were in Santos's end, Luís passed to Cristiano, who scored. They gave the trophy to Rogerio, who loved São Paulo FC more than the rest of the team did. Certainly, much more than Cristiano did. A man doesn't stay at a team for twelve years without actually loving it, surely.

Rogerio got drunk afterwards and kissed everyone on the team on the cheeks. Rogerio sat down next to Cristiano on the locker room bench, smiling loosely, “When are you leaving me, Cristiano? When are you joining your boyfriend?”

“Who said I'm leaving?”

“You don't think you're leaving?”

Cristiano shrugged. No one tried tapping him up yet, so he couldn't really be sure about anything.

“Well, if you stick around this dump long enough and I'm manager, you'll be my captain, right?” Rogerio said, holding out his hand.

“Oh captain, my captain,” Cristiano said, shaking Rogerio's hand, “You'll never leave this place, will you? They'll bury you in the tricolor.”

“Maybe they'll do the same for you.”

“Well, Ancião, it's hard to tell when you plan on retiring. You should be collecting a pension by now.”

Rogerio kissed him on the forehead, “You're a special one.”

Caroline took him out for dinner and they toasted to the defeat of Santos. Cristiano took the bus back to his apartment, since he got quite drunk and he sang along with the people on the bus, who chanted the "Portuguese scum" song, but without the "raping Brazil for all its worth" part, which was at least a step in the right direction. Most of them probably weren't Tricolor fans, but there wasn't a self-respecting Paulistano who didn't hate Santos, even a little bit.

The transfer window burst open in July. Luis Fabiano went to Paris-Saint Germain almost as soon as the window opened. AC Milan didn't offer. Porto did, instead. Halfway through transfer fee discussions, Porto backed out. Right on the edge of the transfer window, at the extreme end of August, a new team picked up his contract and agreed to pay São Paulo whatever they wanted.

"Guess where I'm going to be playing, Ricky."

"Not Porto anymore?"

"They don't like national traitors in Porto, apparently. Guess where."

"Spain?"

"No. Try colder."

"Please don't tell you're going to England. You'll hate the winters there."

"It's too late. Guess where in England."

"Give me a hint."

"I'll be wearing a red shirt."

"That's the least helpful hint. Arsenal."

"More north."

"Manchester United?"

"Liverpool FC."

"Oh Cristiano, you are going to hate the winters there,” Ricky mumbled, “You were supposed to come to Milan.”

“It's too late,” Cristiano didn't know why, but it felt like he was affirming a concept beyond the cold winters of Liverpool.

Cristiano thought it would be hardest to say goodbye to the other São Paulo players or Edu and Dico or his sisters or his brother or his aunt and uncle. Rogerio was used to saying good bye to all of his teammates, who were heading off to Europe without him, so they shook hands again and it wasn't too bad. Cristiano assumed that saying goodbye would be much harder, especially in regards to his father, with all of the necessary conversations that they never had and familial promises that drifted away from what eventually happened. Maybe Cristiano hoped it would harder to say goodbye to them.

“You've gotten a lot less annoying,” Cristiano informed Caroline, “I'll credit for that development.”

She sat on his bed, watching him shove shoes into his suitcase.

“I'd like to think I made you less arrogant, but that was a lost cause before I tried.”

"I have nothing to be arrogant about; it's not arrogance, if you truly are the best."

They paced around each other after Cristiano finished packing for the most part. It was all Cristiano could do to keep himself from trying to kiss her, to touch her.

“Have you ever been to Dom Pedro Imperial?”

“Your high school?”

“Come on. It'll be fun to go there. It's very nice on the inside.”

Cristiano drove them to the high school that Ricky, Marta, and Caroline all went to. It was big with old stone steps and columns. It looked like a smaller version of the Museo do Ipiranga. It was everything Cristiano assumed it was. The hallways were small and narrow with retrofitted florescent lightbulbs. The lockers were green and ungraffitied. It was the complete opposite of Cristiano's old school, which had to have been a prison at one point, considering how ugly and ill-conducive to human happiness it was. It was empty and quiet, but one of the back doors was still open and Cristiano could hear the commotion of some event happening elsewhere in the building.

“We have a pool this way,” Caroline lead him, by pulling him through the old, twisting hallways. He could almost see the private school kids in their prep school uniforms, leaning against walls and talking to each other like miniature adults. None of them had sex in the stairwells or gave R$5 handjobs in the bathroom stalls, Cristiano assumed.

“You guys are fancy, eh? Indoor pools? Do you have an archery range around this place?”

“Keep your voice down,” she whispered, “There are still people around.”

She lead him down some steps towards a part of the building that looked like it had been added in the seventies, with orange walls and green doors. She pushed the door open and looked in. She pulled Cristiano in after her.

The pool's reflection made the ceiling look blue.

“Are we going in or something?”

“If you want to,” Caroline smiled, looking around, “I was on the swim team here.”

“We didn't think this through. Neither of us have bathing suits.”

“I didn't know you were the modest type.”

“I'm not, but you are.”

“I can do just as many stupid things as you can.”

“Really?” Cristiano started yanking his shoes off and unzipping his jacket. Caroline mirrored him. They were staring at each other as they undressed, like it was a competition and the other was going to cheat. She dove in, in her bra and panties. Cristiano jumped in after her, in his underpants.

And they kissed; Caroline did prove herself correct.


	16. Hello, Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping the team together.

 Ronnie was a pain in the ass most of the time. He knew English better than Steve first expected him to, which made him more annoying than Stevie first realized. He was far from fluent, but considering he spent his whole life in Brazil, he spoke English pretty decently. As the newly crowned captain, Stevie felt it was his responsibility to make sure that everyone got along well enough. So he attempted to befriend Ronnie, but it was rather hard to understand half of the things he said.

The new manager, Rafa Benítez, was from Spain and brought a whole new contingent of Spanish players; most of them didn't speak much English, so Stevie couldn't help them very much. Then, Ronnie the Brazilian was brought in to replace Michael Owen, who fucked off to Real Madrid, even though they had the real Ronaldo and probably didn't need Michael at all anyway. Liverpool could have actually used Michael, while Real Madrid had enough top players to fuel ten Champion League teams.

Michael said that he wanted to win the Champions League. It made sense. Stevie didn't disagree that Real Madrid had a better chance. Secretly, he wanted all that too, but he wouldn't admit it out loud. He almost left for Chelsea, but he ended up staying in Liverpool. There wasn't any other real place for him in the whole World.

Ronnie showed up a couple of days after Liverpool lost to Bolton. The season hadn't gotten off to the best starts, especially with a significantly different squad than the year before. Most of the French players left, replaced with Spaniards.

“How old are you?” Carra asked loudly, as if Ronnie was deaf or something, rather than just Brazilian. It was almost unfair forcing foreigners to speak to Jamie Carragher, whose accent was so impenetrable that sometimes even Stevie found it difficult to decipher.

“Ten and nine,” Ronnie replied enthusiastically.

“Nah, mate,” Carra tried to explain, “It's nineteen. Ten plus nine is nineteen.”

Ronnie smiled blandly, clearly absolutely unaware of what Carra was going on about. The Spanish contingent took in Ronnie, protecting him from the rogue accent that was Jamie Carragher. Everyone ate lunch at different tables, mostly according to their native languages.

One of the Spanish players, Xabi Alonso, was probably around the same height as Stevie and they kind of looked similarly, except Xabi had a bigger nose, a bigger forehead and was the only Spanish ginger that Stevie had ever seen. Xabi seemed exactly like the kind of man that Stevie would mostly avoid were they to meet in normal life, outside of football. He probably did well in school and was a perpetual do-gooder, possibly even a snitch in school. But even still, possibly, it was out of narcissism, Stevie wanted to know him better.

It probably wasn't narcissism, but jealousy of the accurate long ball that Xabi could somehow produce. The first time he saw it in training, Stevie nearly bit his own tongue off in awe. It was the most beautiful goddamn thing he had ever seen in his entire life, except for the obligatory exception of his girlfriend, Alex.  And ultimately jealousy probably carried over into interest in the man that could produce that long ball. What attributes in a person blessed them with that ability? That brand of magic that Stevie would gladly give anything to obtain.

“You are in love with your twin,” Ronnie said, in a manner that suggested he thought he was being helpful. Stevie had been staring off into the middle distance, which only happened to be in the same direction of Xabi. They were all supposed to be stretching.

“My twin? We're not related.”

“People who look like each other,” Ronnie said, “They are twins, yes?”

“Sometimes. Twins are people who are born at the same time.”

Ronnie's face screwed up in confusion, “Oh.”

Stevie leaned to touch his toes.

“What is people who look like each other, but they are not related?”

“I don't know. Clone or something.”

“You love your clone,” Ronnie said firmly.

“Shut up, Ronnie.”

The problem with Xabi and connecting him with the non-Spanish part of the team was that he was a smart lad. Much smarter than the rest of the team. He read books with leather covers and watched black-and-white movies, probably listened to jazz. Carra, on the other hand, thought Spandau Ballet was the height of English culture and Stevie, himself, had gotten into fights defending Phil Collins. Xabi made them all look like slack-jawed morons who enjoyed chewing on sticks. And he could pass like no one else could.

The first away game after Ronnie showed up was at Manchester United. Stevie would have preferred to be roomed with Carra, Steve Finnan, Sami, or, especially Xabi, but instead he got Ronnie. Ronnie was already watching television when Stevie got to the room, his feet kicked up onto the bed closest to the door. He still had his shoes on. Ronnie looked up, but didn't move to help Stevie with his bags.

Stevie was the captain, so he had to try to talk to Ronnie, “So what's Brazil like? I've never been there before.”

“In my old favela, we have a mocaco. He lives there.”

“Mocaco?”

“Is like human, but eats bananas.”

“Like a monkey?”

Ronnie repeated “monkey” thoughtfully, “That is in my English book.”

“What's a favela, anyway?”

“Is part of a city. Like Everton.”

“It's a football club?”

“No. Part of the city. Houses and apartments.”

“Neighborhood, then?”

“Yes, but favelas are very poor.”

“So your neighborhood had a monkey?”

Ronnie nodded, “He would climb into apartments and steal things to give to his babies.”

“Wow. That's amazing,” Stevie had to admit. If that was common, he would have to visit Brazil. Thieving monkeys? Maybe they even wore little waistcoats with pockets that they put their little stolen trinkets in.

Stevie tried to impart this knowledge on Xabi, during breakfast, to impress him with something Xabi didn't know, but as he spoke, Stevie realized how psychotic the entire thing sounded. Xabi gave him a weird look and Ronnie was howling with laughter.

Ronnie was a lot younger than the rest of the first team. Warnock was the next youngest and he was three and a half years older than Ronnie.

They sat on the bus together, when Stevie asked, “What's Brazil actually like?”

“I live in a city. Is like London, but bigger. Worse traffic.”

“Worse traffic? Impossible.”

Ronnie smiled; his janky teeth on full display, “When are you going to tell your clone you love him?”

Stevie rolled his eyes, “Oh shut up.”

Manchester won. When Stevie saw Ronnie attempting to negotiate, in broken English, for Ruud van Nistelrooy's shirt, Stevie steered him away, “You don't take dirty fucking Manc shirts.”

“What is Manc?”

“Fuckers from Manchester.”

“Is Manchester United like Corinthians?”

“Are Corinthians dirty fuckers who win everything?”

“Kind of.”

“Then, they're kind of like Man U,” Stevie said.

“Fuck them, then,” Cristiano said.

Stevie smiled, ruffling his hair, “That's the attitude.”

Ronnie drifted away from the Spanish contingent, mostly as he didn't get on with Rafa all that much. He usually sat with Stevie and his group, while Xabi still sat with the Spaniards, speaking in their private language.

“I not understand them,” Ronnie told Stevie during a break after sprints.

“I thought you spoke Spanish.”

“I speak Portuguese. Is a much better language.”

One day at lunch, Stevie sat at his usual table, in between Steve Finnan and Carra where Carra was telling Ronnie some story that Ronnie was clearly not following. He stared at Carra confused, his eyes nearly glazed over, sliding out of focus. Xabi sat down at their table. Someone kicked him under the table, Stevie assumed it was Ronnie.

“What brings you to realm of the English speakers?” Steve Finnan asked.

“I wanted to hear a new conversation.”

Carra started his story over again and Stevie noticed Xabi's eye glaze over a little bit, too.

Stevie decided as captain he needed to unite them. They weren't doing particularly well or particularly badly in the standings. After they reconvened after the international break, Stevie told them all to meet some club in the city.

Xabi was the first one there and Stevie was second. Xabi was sitting in the VIP booth alone, awkwardly looking around, “I was worried it was a joke. That you would not show up.”

“You make us sound like right assholes, Xabi,” Stevie said.

Carra and Ronnie showed up next. Ronnie was the only one of them to get tan during the week-long international break; he was the only from South America, so it kind of made sense. Even though they were opposite human beings in every important way, Carra and Ronnie bonded over a mutual interest in making Stevie deeply uncomfortable. If Ronnie ended up at another football club, Stevie could picture them fighting on pitch and throwing weak punches at each other. Carra would probably grumble that Ronnie was too flash and deserved every one of his misfortunes, but at Liverpool, Ronnie had made a little nest. Ronnie whispered something to Carra, who laughed loudly, “Stevie! You know what Ronnie says! He says that you and Xabi are clones! He's right, you know!”

Stevie heaved a sigh. Stevie bought shots for the whole team. Josemi, Nuñez, and a few others missed the meet-up, meaning that the intention was almost lost. Well, at least Xabi showed up.

As the night wore on, Xabi got hilariously drunk. Maybe he wasn't that drunk, but maybe instead Stevie had gotten drunk enough where Xabi's intoxication was funny. Carra was completely speaking a different language, while Steve Finnan, Sami, and a few others were attempting to grasp the quick mumbles that Carra produced.

“I never understand him. It isn't different now,” Xabi said. His face was blotchy pink, clashing with his Spanish ginger hair.

“Ronnie, you're not drunk yet,” Steve Finnan got Ronnie in a headlock and ruffled his hair, which had been growing out over the season, slowly resembling an afro out of the 1970s.

“I have a high tolerance. My father drinks for a living,” Ronnie replied.

That night, Stevie and Xabi left with Ronnie, going to Ronnie's flat. The rest of the team were going to their own homes, but Stevie thought Ronnie would be continuing to be in the mood for a party, so Xabi and Stevie went with him. Ronnie's flat was pretty sparse in an expensive building, but he was a teenager living by himself, so it was pretty impressive that there wasn't just a thick layer of used condoms littering the floor. Ronnie fell asleep sitting up on his couch; one minute, he had talking to them, the next he was making guttural sleep noises with his eyes shut and his mouth wide open. Stevie checked his watch; it was four forty-five. Xabi fell asleep on the floor and Stevie did the same.

The next morning, Ronnie was making breakfast at the crack of dawn, it felt like. The clanging of pots reverberated in Stevie's head. Xabi was still passed out on the floor, apparently deaf to the issue in the kitchen. Ronnie gave him vitamins and said, “Your clone likes you, too.”

“Shut up, Ronnie,” but Stevie smiled anyway. The Champions League went well. Much better than expected. To the point where Stevie almost felt like calling up Michael and asking him if he regretted leaving. If it hurt to get replaced by a Spanish ginger and a Brazilian kid with mad hair. If it stung to sit on the bench when he could have been starting at Liverpool. But Stevie decided against it. Real Madrid could still get to the final. They were both merely on the same level.

The first match against Chelsea, in October, was a mess. Their new manager, José Mourinho, was allegedly some Darth Vader figure combined with Gordon Gecko from _Wall Street_. Rafa hated him. Rafa referred to him as the Portuguese bully.

The match was going quickly. Frank Lampard and John Terry controlled the game and the field. Stevie looked at Frank every once in a while. Stevie could have been a part of this team, playing where Frank was. They were doing very well, at the top of the table, winning pretty much everything. Stevie could have had that, standing in blue, across from Xabi, Ronnie, and Carra, all of them in red.

A half-hour into the game, Ronnie got a red card for elbowing Ricardo Carvalho in the head; they had been going at it the whole match. Mourinho grabbed Ronnie's arm to talk to him, but Ronnie pulled away, saying something quite angrily in Portuguese. They lost when Joe Cole scored in the second half. When Stevie walked off the pitch, Ronnie was sulking in the locker room; Rafa and Ronnie had been shouting at each other while everyone else was in the shower.

They were staying in London that night. Ronnie was sharing a room with Xabi, so when Carra and Stevie stopped by, they tiptoed around the red card issue. Ronnie was watching television, determined to not stray his attention from the stupid talk show that was on. Carra and Stevie tried to teach Xabi some card game. Xabi didn't know how to play poker. He probably knew how play to Bridge and played snooker while smoking a big pipe.

It was one of those live shows, so eventually, the host started talking about Chelsea and José Mourinho's face flashed up on the screen. Ronnie made a weird noise of frustration and changed the channel.

“You don't like Mourinho, mate?” Carra asked, looking away from the game.

“I think when I leave Brazil, people stop calling me Portuguese Scum.”

“Mourinho called you Portuguese scum?” Stevie asked, abandoning the game, “Is that some racist thing?”

“Is my nickname in Brazil. I am born in Portugal. We move to Brazil when I am young. Portuguese people are angry I play for Brazil. I do not like when people say I am a fake Brazilian. I win games for Brazil and they are jealous,” Ronnie said, waving his hand. Stevie wouldn't have assumed that Ronnie wasn't born in Brazil; he seemed like one in a long-line of Ronaldos.

It started to snow in early November, during stretches. Ronnie tried to take a picture of it with his cell phone. Xabi was pressing against Stevie's heel, stretching Stevie's calf. Ronnie explained, “It doesn't snow in São Paulo. My brother and sisters have never seen snow.”

It was a little flurry and it didn't stick to the ground.

“Have you tried tasting snow?” Xabi asked.

“Is just water.”

“It tastes different, though.”

Ronnie tried, while Xabi and Stevie laughed at Ronnie sticking his tongue out and bobbing his head around for a snowflake.

“It doesn't taste any different!” Ronnie complained. Carra and Steve Finnan decided it was time to test Ronnie's gullibility.

“The different sized ones are different flavors!”

By the third test, Ronnie said in his thick accent, “Is not funny anymore! Maybe the first two times. But is not funny anymore!”

Xabi and Stevie were doubled over, wheezing, unable to laugh anymore. Rafa shouted at them, but it was worth it. Stevie decided that Michael Owen didn't deserve this team.


	17. Things We Said Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm aching and tired and I don't know why."

 In November, Ricky had broken his arm and came to visit Cristiano in Liverpool. Cristiano had forgotten how much he ached until he saw Ricky in his new apartment. Then, it was impossible to ignore that familiar phantom pain.

“Liverpool's nothing like home, eh?” Ricky said, sitting down on the couch, while Cristiano stood.

“I like my team,” Cristiano said, not sure what to say otherwise.

“That's good.”

Ricky was the same as usual, beatific and perfect. He stayed at Cristiano's apartment and Cristiano let him sleep in his bed. They didn't kiss.

Cristiano went to training before Ricky woke up and came back right after training, even though Carra wanted to figure out a method to prank Stevie. Normally, Cristiano would have enjoyed a brainstorming session in that vein, particularly since Carra was kind of a curiosity in that it was his accent that fascinated Cristiano much more than necessary. Ricky was watching television and looked like he fit in Cristiano's spartan apartment. They ate dinner sharing little conversation.

Cristiano had a lot to say, but an unwillingness to admit anything.

“I was looking around. Do you use your balcony often?” Ricky asked.

Cristiano shook his head mid-chew. After dinner, they sat on his balcony, looking at the purplish sky as the World shifted from day to night. Ricky's hand rested on top of Cristiano's. They sat on the floor looking out over the city.

“Do you love me?”

“Of course I do. You're my best friend,” Ricky said.

“I mean, do you love me the way that I love you?”

“I told you...”

“Well, do you kiss all of your friends?” Cristiano asked.

Ricky shrugged.

“Would you ever want to just be with me? And no one else? If Caroline wasn't around.”

“I don't know. Do you have a new girlfriend or something?”

“I'm just curious.”

Ricky leaned against Cristiano's arm, “If I felt the same way about a girl the way that I feel about you, I would marry her.”

Ricky's apparent dedication to honesty hit Cristiano's ears and he temporarily went deaf. If anything was the wrong thing to ever say, Ricky had found a way to say it and not explode out of human indecency.

“We can get married in one of the little countries around here. Maybe Germany or something.”

“You're the only one who would think Germany is a little country.”

“My bigger point is that it's possible for us to get married around here.”

“I wouldn't marry you anyway. It's in the Bible.”

“There are plenty of stupid things in the Bible. My brother said there's a rule against shaving your beard in the Bible. You do that every day.”

“Cristiano, you are just lonely. You miss home. That is why you say these things.”

“Yeah and we both love each other and you hide behind Jesus like he's some fucking magician. Just because you read it in a book doesn't mean that the situation is solved and that you can lock all of your feelings in a box and hide it away. You'll still love me and there's nothing that either of us can do about that.”

“I love God more than anything in the World.”

“That's a lot of stuff to love less than God. Are you sure that you should even get married if you feel that way?” Cristiano asked bitterly.

Ricky pressed his forehead to Cristiano's shoulder, “Love is old, love is new, love is all, love is you.”

“What book of the Bible is that from? The Virgin's Guide to Shit Promises?”

“The Beatles. You should listen to them if you're going to stay in Liverpool.”

Cristiano faced Ricky. Ricky looked like a saint from a painting. _The Passion of Saint Ricardo._ Cristiano asked, “Why do you love God so much? Remember when you broke your neck? You almost couldn't play football again. Why don't you blame God for that?”

“But I can still play.”

“But you broke your neck.”

“It was a test.”

“Why is God testing you, though? Why does He care if one guy believes in Him?”

“He cares about us all believing in Him.”

“What if you didn't get better? What would you do then?”

“I don't know. I do know that you would still be my friend, though.”

“You wouldn't be able to play football.”

“Life's not just football.”

Cristiano had his doubts on that. The stars started emerged from their daytime slumber, twinkling through the bitter black of night. Before they went to bed, Ricky asked, “Will you be my best man at my wedding?”

Apparently, they were forgetting everything they said that night. Eventually, Ricky left to go back to Italy. And Cristiano still had football, but that was about it. He had a hollow spot in his chest that hurt more than anything.

He went to training. Occasionally, he argued with Rafa. Occasionally, he went to art movies with Xabi that he didn't understand, just to go out. Occasionally, he and Carra devised plans to scare Stevie. Occasionally, he and Stevie played snooker in Stevie's basement, while Stevie's girlfriend, some model, would play too. They had a baby, who was very small, only just starting to walk. It was to distract himself, to focus on football and his team. He ached and hungered.

Cristiano couldn't go back to Brazil for Christmas, due to the EPL schedule. The English heathens couldn't take off for two weeks, apparently. Elma, Cátia, Cátia's new husband, and Hugo came to England for Christmas; Cristiano paid for their tickets. Ricky went back to Brazil; he and Caroline sent Cristiano pictures of their Christmas with their families.

“You can see a game at Anfield on the twenty-eighth,” Cristiano told them when they got back to his apartment.

“What about the one that's the day after Christmas?” Cátia said, “That's the one you said you couldn't come home because of.”

“It's in West Bromwich. It's not really worth the drive.”

“Look at your big boy apartment,” Elma said, kicking at his Ikea chairs. Hugo reached out to ruffle Cristiano's hair, even though Cristiano was finally taller than him. Hugo was drawn-out, skinnier than Cristiano remembered. It was nice to have people to speak Portuguese to. The Spaniards tried to induct Cristiano into their Iberian Club, but Cristiano preferred the puzzle that Carra's accent to the drivel that was Spanish. He didn't have much to condescend to others about, so he decided his native language was enough.

Liverpool won on the twenty-sixth and the twenty-eighth. On the twenty-sixth, it was a goal fest. Southampton was less so, but a win was a win. When he met his brother and his sisters at the apartment afterwards, they all sang “You'll Never Walk Alone” at him. It went by too quickly and soon they were leaving to go back to Brazil. Cristiano offered to Hugo, “If you ever need money to get cleaned up, I'll pay for it, no questions.”

Hugo tapped Cristiano's cheek, “You're a good brother.”

They lost some, they won more. After his birthday passed, Caroline visited him, after she had spent a long time in Italy with Ricky. She swept into apartment like a sophisticated hurricane.

“Everyone thinks I'm visiting one of my friends from school.”

Caroline's visit was much different than Ricky's. Being around her made him ache, too, but to a smaller degree. Seeing people made him hurt and seeing couples, especially, pulled on every fiber of his body. There wasn't the same tension with Caroline as there was with Ricky. Cristiano knew that if he tried hard enough, Caroline could be his. But if both Caroline and Ricky were not together, Cristiano would choose Ricky. It was an unequal trade. She did act like his girlfriend, though. When Cristiano got back from training, she would have an afternoon snack made, reading a magazine on his couch, out of place, since she was far better looking than the couch deserved. It felt very domestic, like this was the way his life was supposed to go, as proscribed by television.

They sat on his balcony. He still hadn't bought any furniture for the balcony yet. They were both bundled up. Ricky was right, Cristiano didn't like the English winters, but it was something he could get used to eventually.

“Three years ago, if you said, 'Cristiano Aveiro will be your best friend,' I wouldn't have believed you.”

“Good thing for second chances.”

They were quiet for a long time. Usually, conversations came easy for them. Cristiano would make a social faux pas and Caroline would correct him, leading to sniping at each other, until Cristiano was overcome the urge to kiss her, which was when the conversations would peter out. Then, Cristiano would do something again and Caroline would respond.

“I thought that when I got married, I'd be so excited for it. Now I'm just afraid of it,” Caroline said.

“That's normal. Cátia was nervous before she got married,” Cristiano said.

“How old was Cátia when she got married?”

“Twenty-five.”

“My parents are afraid that one day I'll wake up and I'll have regretted all of it. They want me to finish university first.”

“Then don't get married.”

“Isn't it too late now?” she asked, like Cristiano might have a real answer for her, “I'm with him now and I said I would marry him. It's too late.”

Cristiano shrugged and she leaned against his side, pressing her face into his collar bone. She said, “You're the only way I've rebelled in my entire life. And the wedding, too. They don't want that either.”

Cristiano touched her hair. He wanted a sliver of love for himself, but Caroline's love would come at the expense of Ricky's, surely.

“Everyone's expecting it,” Caroline said, “There are too many people in my life. They all want different things from me and I can't please them all.”

She left and nothing happened.

His annoyance with Rafa reared its head during a practice in March, after Caroline left. Cristiano had only started in half of the matches, but considering that, Cristiano thought he was doing pretty well considering he moved halfway across the globe in the middle of the Campeonato Serie A season, playing far past the point where he would normally be burnt out.

It felt like his body was being kept together with K-tape and hope, so being told that he wasn't training hard enough was not particularly pleasant, but Cristiano did the training anyway. After the morning training, he had plans to eat lunch and then take a nap until evening training.

“When you come back tonight, I expect you to work twice as hard as you did this morning,” Rafa said, “You've been looking slow out there.”

Cristiano nodded. The entire year of solid football was catching up to him and he spent most of his free time sleeping, instead of going out. After matches when the others went to clubs, he slept. If they were in hotels, he was always the first to be asleep. It was possibly connected to the hollow tiredness that he developed after Caroline left, but he couldn't be certain.

“I only say these things because you are not developing the way you should. I shouldn't have to nag you. I'm not your mother.”

Cristiano didn't know what he was supposed to say, so he didn't say anything. He didn't put his stuff away neatly, just dropping them into the bottom of the locker. His deodorant sprayed a little bit and his shoes made a loud thump. He felt like an odd shell of himself. He couldn't even be bothered to throw a temper tantrum.

In Brazil, and probably Portugal as well, it was called Saudade. There was even a holiday dedicated to being miserable because you missed someone so much. He missed Brazil and São Paulo. He missed Rogerio and the stupid black, white, and red of São Paulo FC's shirts (both home and away). He missed Hugo, Cátia and Elma. He missed Tia Carla and Tio Mauro and Portuguesa. Brazil with its favelas and its beautiful football, watching the World Cup in bars and shop windows. He even missed Caroline and her special brand of judgmental insanity.

He missed Ricky, though, possibly most of all, even though Ricky was possibly farther away from Brazil than Cristiano was himself. He missed going to the beach with Ricky, the fact that Ricky turned pink with sunburn, playing football, laying in Ricky's room, touching each other's hair for hours. The best parts of Brazil were indistinguishable from his time with Ricky.

Most of Cristiano's alone time was spent sleeping.

Liverpool played Chelsea in London for the Champions League Semi-Final at the end of April. Cristiano decided that he hated Chelsea more than any other side in the Premier League, even if Stevie had told him that Manchester United was the enemy. At least, Manchester United didn't have what appeared to be half of the Portuguese National Team on their squad.

Cristiano almost got through the entire game with just a yellow for a late tackle. Paulo Ferreira was covering him for the most part.

“You don't have to use that accent,” Ferreira said, “We all know that you're Portuguese.”

Cristiano didn't say anything. His body was aching, his mind was aching. He had started to fall asleep with his ankles wrapped with cool compresses. Being called something that he technically was wasn't particularly high on Cristiano's list of affronts. It stung, but no more than the other ailments he suffered from.

The match was mostly over. It was the eighty-fourth minute. There was no point, but Ferreira said, “Your poor mother. Your poor Portuguese mother. She must be so disappointed in having a Brazilian son.”

Cristiano tried to lunge, but Xabi already had grabbed Cristiano around his belly. Cristiano got his second yellow and didn't bother protesting it. Xabi tried to get Ferreira a yellow, too, but no luck.

“Cristiano! Cristiano!” Mourinho shouted for him, but it was all a game to Mourinho. Rafa said that Mourinho did crazy stuff like that, playing mind games and throwing players off. Well, Mourinho was good at it, Cristiano thought bitterly.

Cristiano went to the locker room by himself and kicked the corner of one of the cement benches. Pain exploded in his toe.

“Fuck!” Cristiano sat down, not wanting to take off his boot to see his probably broken toe. Anger, saudade, actual physical pain, and constipated rage were all mixing and trading places. It was all expanding and contracting wildly.

Cristiano was half-leaning into his away locker when the rest of the team straggled into the locker room, attempting to choke back ugly, body-shaking sobs. His forehead was resting against the back wall and he was on his knees; he couldn't balance on his probably broken toe, so he couldn't squat. It was probably the most awkward position he could have chosen, but a little bubble of misplaced pride prevented him from just sitting on the bench or going to the showers.

They had been complaining loudly, but once they got into the locker room, they were quiet. Cristiano could hear them shift uncomfortably around. Then, they started to whisper, walking to their lockers, all probably staring at him, at his awkward position.

“That doesn't look too comfy, mate,” Stevie said, kneeling down next to Cristiano in the locker, “Xabi kind of understood what happened. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Cristiano shrugged and limped off to find the physio, who informed him that his toe was only sprained.

Stevie sat next to him on the bus to the hotel, “I almost transferred to Chelsea.”

“I hate you too. If you are there.”

Stevie shrugged, “We'll beat them. We'll get to the final and we'll show them who deserves what.”

When they got back to the hotel, Cristiano went straight to bed, pausing only to take his shoes off. He couldn't fall asleep; he heard Warnock sneak in at about two o'clock in the morning and start snoring immediately. Cristiano just laid in the quiet hotel room, listening to his roommate's gentle snores, watching the lights shift across the purpled ceiling as traffic passed the slightly opened curtains. He ached thoroughly. 


	18. I've Grown So Old in So Few Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big game.

_DAILY MAIL: THE ROAD TO ISTANBUL IS PAVED WITH HESITATION: C.RONALDO TO SIT ON THE BENCH._

Liverpool had somehow snaked their way to the Champions League, beating Chelsea at home in Anfield. Cristiano sat in the private box, watching the others do what he wanted to. He did get to go down to the field before the rest of them escaped into the locker room, jumping with excitement. But then, the next day, AC Milan beat PSV with away goals and similarly made their way to the Champions League final. Their own trip was far less dramatic, winning most of their matches, less like the jumbled grab bag of wins, draws, and losses that littered Liverpool's result board.

Cristiano sat out the first half. Rafa said they needed an ace in the hole for when A.C. Milan got tired. Liverpool was three goals down in the first half, so Rafa's plan seemed like it was failing quickly. Before the match began, Ricky hugged him at the touch line. It was the first game they were going to play against each other; the Intercontinental Cup debacle rose uncomfortably in Cristiano's mind. Both of them were healthy and fit and there was no reason not to meet on that pitch in Istanbul.

“Good luck, Cristiano.”

“Not too much, eh?”

Cafu and Dida shook his hand out of mutual Brazilian-ness. Cafu, legendary Cafu, stood in front of Cristiano, much shorter than he always imagined. Cristiano had always assumed Cafu was mighty and tall, rather than four inches shorter than himself.

Suddenly, the name “C.Ronaldo” seemed so much heavier. Cristiano wasn't another in a long line of Brazilians whose parents enjoyed the works of Ronald Reagan. He was just a Portuguese man whose parents enjoyed the works of Ronald Reagan. Cafu was the temporary gatekeeper to Brazilian football.

Cristiano sat on the bench, watching. Watching Ricky do the same things that he had done for two and a half years when they played together. It felt like he was sitting on a giant egg. Each goal that was scored, especially the first one from Maldini, was painful.

They sat on the benches in the depths of the Atatürk Olympic Stadium, where Galatasaray played, in the locker room. Stevie stood in front of them, pacing, looking like he had aged a few years over the course of forty-five minutes.

“Right, lads,” Stevie said, “We got a lot of people out there who want us to win. And we don't give up easy. If we gave up easy, we wouldn't be here. In this stadium playing this team. We got a lot of people who need us to win. We got a lot to prove to a lot of people. Let's prove we're the better team.”

Before they left the locker room, Cristiano approached Xabi, “If you get on Kaká's left, you'll break down his attack quicker. He can't dribble if you're close on his left.”

Xabi nodded, ruffling Cristiano's hair without a word. Cristiano knew that the point of his job was to win, but it felt like selling Ricky out.

Something happened. Rafa substituted Dieter for Steve Finnan. Rafa had Cristiano warm up on the sidelines when the half started. Then, Stevie, Vladimir, and Xabi scored three goals in six minutes. It was like watching a religious experience close up. Like the 1998 World Cup was replayed and things went the way they were supposed to. Rafa couldn't keep himself on the bench and was on the touchline, shouting. Cristiano started to warm up again at minute seventy-three. He was substituted in for Milan Baros at eighty-five. Stevie and the others were starting to lag from being tired.

The pitch was a nightmare. Though the match was becoming sluggish, no one wanted to lose, meaning that both teams were kicking wildly, attempting to push their own attack upfield towards the opposition's goal. The ball pinged around like a pinball. Cristiano got one touch in the five minutes left in regulation time, but Cafu tackled him and Milan regained possession. It was an honor to get tackled by Cafu.

When the five minutes were up, Cristiano still had a boundless wealth of energy, while everyone else was slowing down.

“Ronnie. What're you thinking about, mate?” Carra put his hands on Cristiano's shoulders, facing him. They had taken a water break before added extra time was to begin.

“Cafu. Is the best player in the World.”

“I don't rate him,” Carra said, jutting his bottom lip out, “Don't rate him at all.”

“Is the best.”

“Nah, mate. Whatever he's done before doesn't count for anything right now. You're younger, you're faster, you're not as tired. You're the best player on the pitch right now. You're the only one who doesn't look like a lung cancer patient at a marathon,” Carra shoved his finger into Cristiano's chest, “However we win, it's up to you.”

Even if what Carra said wasn't true, Cristiano needed it. Cristiano took a deep breath, feeling the weight of every single person who was singing in the stands. They wanted and needed, too.

Five minutes into the first half of extra time, Xabi hit a long ball and Cristiano got control of it. He steered himself around Cafu, who wasn't as quick as Cristiano, especially with the previous ninety-five minutes weighing on him heavily. Suddenly, Cristiano was alone against Dida, the Milanese keeper. Cristiano struck the ball with the inside of his boot. It traveled through space for ages. Cristiano felt like he aged four years before it actually went through. The tips of Dida's fingers barely made contact and it fell in past the goal line.

The World seemed so quiet, as the goal didn't register in his head at first. Dida was on the ground from his diving attempt to stop it. The ball was caught in the netting and Cristiano just stared. It didn't click. Until someone knocked him over from behind. The roar of the crowd emerged. Stevie, Xabi, Carra, Dieter, everyone was on top of him, hugging him, kissing his forehead. Stevie wouldn't let go of him; pressing his lips to Cristiano's cheek.

They pulled him up to start jogging back to the center circle. Cristiano jogged past Ricky and his utter elation at scoring the possibly winning goal at the Champions League final broke. All of the losses that Ricky had before that moment, Cristiano had shared. The only victory that Ricky had that Cristiano couldn't share was Milan's win at the Intercontinental Cup, but that wasn't really Cristiano's loss either.

The last twenty minutes of the match were quick. They flew past and Milan couldn't get past the midfield.

The referee blew his whistle and the game was over. The handshakes and hugs started. Cristiano looked around and couldn't see Ricky anywhere. Cafu was fairly close, though, so Cristiano shook his hand.

“You're my favorite player,” Cristiano said, probably shaking his hand for too long.

“I would have thought you liked Ronaldo.”

“Nope. You are always King Cafu to me.”

Cafu smiled slightly, pained a bit. He ruffled Cristiano's hair, “I'll see you on the Seleção more often now, eh?”

He took off his kit for Cristiano and Cristiano did the same. Cafu walked away, Cristiano's red kit hanging off of his shoulder. Carra was the next closest and he was so happy, it was somewhat scary. Carra grabbed Cristiano and hugged him tightly. Cristiano almost lost his breath. Stevie wasn't less intense. Stevie was turning purple with happiness. Stevie hugged him, lifting Cristiano off of his feet, though only by two inches or so, “You beautiful, beautiful, beautiful genius!”

He ran off, probably to make out with Xabi, if it didn't make his girlfriend jealous. Ricky was not on the pitch, probably in the locker rooms, getting water or something. Cristiano headed to the bench and shook Rafa's hand, who tossed him a red “Champions of Europe” shirt, cheerfully not minding their minor dramas that led up to the victory.

The UEFA people were setting up the platform in the middle of the field and Cristiano saw the Champions of Europe Trophy in some man's hands. It was gold and shining and looked like heaven in trophy form.

AC Milan had to make a tunnel for the Liverpool players to walk through to get to the trophy. It all seemed very cruel, especially since they were wearing the losers' medals already. Shevchenko's face was puffy and red, like he'd been crying. Cristiano purposefully didn't look for Ricky. If Ricky was crying, Cristiano probably would have given up the trophy and gave it to Ricky.

Steve Finnan had his hands on Cristiano's shoulders, following him like a train. Xabi and Stevie were walking up to the platform like the King and Queen of Istanbul, holding hands. Well, they had won together.

They took pictures and Cristiano smiled like the trophy was the only thing he wanted. Ricky had ruined everything for Cristiano. Victory, girls, everything. Apparently, Cristiano couldn't do anything without Ricky drawing out any pleasure from it. Cristiano felt like one of those Christians who had to poke themselves with safety pins whenever they got erections. He tried to shove the bitter sadness of victory away, away with a number of unpleasant emotions he attempted to hide over the years.

Cristiano stayed on the grass long after the fans left. He could almost hear the entire city rioting with the elation of Liverpool fans and the disappointment of Milanese fans, but in the stadium, it was quiet. He ached and was tired.

He went back to the hotel after a while. He tried to go to sleep, but couldn't quite drift off. He wasn't thinking about anything in particular, but his thoughts jumped around and bundled. Nothing bumped up against everything.

The flight back was miserable. Cristiano hadn't gotten any sleep, but everyone was still drunk from the night before, shouting cheerfully along with the music that was coming out of Sami's computer. When they back to Liverpool, they had the parade with the trophy. Stevie insisted that they all get drunk. Cristiano obliged, needing to retreat away from the little bomb Ricky had become in his mind.

He blacked out most of the parade. There were flashes of memory. Most of them were getting pulled away from the edge of the bus by the back of his shirt. He woke up in Stevie's basement, lying on newspaper, with a garbage can next to his head.

“That was some impressive drinking, Ronnie,” Stevie said when Cristiano emerged from the basement. Steve Finnan, Sami, Xabi, Jerzy, Luís García, and Carra were all sitting around Stevie's table, all worse for the wear.

“Where are girls?” Cristiano asked, rubbing his eyes. Sami tapped Cristiano on the cheek.

“You were in no shape to be messing around with girls yesterday.”

“There would have been even more Ronaldos.”

“Ronaldo is not my last name,” Cristiano said, sitting next to Jerzy at the table.

“Are you sure?”

“Is my middle name. Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro.”

“Jesus Christ!” Carra said loudly, “This changes everything!”

Cristiano drank enough water for an entire Middle Eastern track team and had to take a bus back to Melwood, where he left his car the day before. Liverpool fans saw him, which was the entire bus and asked for autographs. They sang at him and it was quite nice, “Walk on! Walk on! With hope in your heart! And you'll never walk alone!”

It was like being in Brazil, land of football. He sang with them and he missed his stop, but it was okay.


	19. Epilogue:  Lucky that I Love a Foreign Land for the Lucky Fact of Your Existence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Brazil.

 Ricky was in Brazil for almost a week and a half when Rogerio called him.

“I expect to see you at the match this Saturday,” Rogerio informed him, “You get box seats in the fancy booth. It should be worthy of someone who's been in a Champions League final, after all.”

Rogerio left him tickets at the counter and everyone shook his hand on his way into the private club booth.

The match was São Paulo versus Portuguesa; Ricky wondered for a minute why Rogerio invited him and not Cristiano, whose favorite team, for unclear reasons, was Portuguesa. The booth door opened again, after the first ten minutes of the match had slipped past. Cristiano slipped into the empty seat next to Ricky, with his usual smile and attitude. His cheeks were pink, probably from rushing, "I hear this team is no good."

"Which one? Portuguesa or the Tricolor?"

"The Tricolor. Where are have you been? Portuguesa is the best club in the world."

"I've been in a little country called Italy. You might not have heard of it before," Ricky shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure of how to respond to Cristiano, but trying.

"You're right. I haven't."

Portuguesa lost. They had only been promoted to Serie A in February and São Paulo was having a good campaign, even in the absence of Cristiano, Luís Fabiano, Peixinho, and Ricky, himself. Cristiano swore loudly when some kid that Ricky had never seen before scored against Portuguesa.

“It's easy to forget that you used to play for São Paulo the way you go on,” Ricky said.

“They don't forget,” Cristiano shrugged. A steward led them down to the locker rooms, even though Cristiano and Ricky could have found the locker room blindfolded. Rogerio hugged both of them, though, it was Cristiano that Rogerio seemed fonder of.

“How are my prodigal sons?” Rogerio tapped Cristiano's cheek.

“Not bad, I was worried you'd be dead by the time I got back, Old Man,” Cristiano said, getting away with it.

“You're taking me to dinner,” Rogerio declared, “And you'll pay with your fancy European contracts.”

Ricky said, not sure where the wealth of bitterness emerged from, “Cristiano should pay. He got a bonus for winning the Champions League.”

Cristiano and Rogerio both looked at Ricky oddly. Cristiano went off to shake hands with some man that Ricky had never met. He had only missed out on one year that Cristiano had with São Paulo, but apparently the fabric of the club favored Cristiano at that moment.

At dinner, Rogerio asked, “Either of you hear from Luís or Manolo or any of them?”

Other than Cristiano, Ricky really hadn't kept up with the players from São Paulo. If he was being honest, he probably wouldn't have gone out of his way to meet up with Rogerio either. Cristiano, on the other hand, had all of the gossip of the day, “I think Luís wants to go to Spain. Pexeinho's staying in Portugal because he wants to get his citizenship there.”

“He's going to pull a Deco, huh?” Rogerio said. And the conversation drifted along with Ricky contributing almost nothing. Ricky had almost nothing in common with Luís Fabiano or Peixinho or Manolo, so once they lost the common bond of São Paulo FC, Ricky wasn't sure what to talk to them about.

Cristiano and Rogerio hugged before Rogerio went to go home. Cristiano shouted after him, in the car, “Be sure to pick up your pension check! You shouldn't be exerting yourself!”

Cristiano turned to Ricky and for once, in the history of their relationship, there was not a word said. Ricky wasn't sure how to say any of the things he wanted to.

“Do you want to get a drink or something?” Cristiano asked. Ricky nodded, not wanting to leave Cristiano quite yet, worried that if nothing was said for too long, they'd fall apart, just as Ricky had with so many other people.

Ricky rarely drank unless he was with Cristiano. It just wasn't very high on his list of activities to partake in, but even the most mundane activities with Cristiano were utterly magical. Cristiano didn't get drunk, but he certainly wasn't sober, “We've never been on vacation together. You ever realize that?”

“My parents have taken you with us on trips.”

“I mean us. Just us.”

“You want to go vacation?”

“Why not?” Cristiano insisted, “You're not busy, right? Have a lot of wedding planning to do?”

And Ricky agreed to go to Rio de Janeiro with Cristiano, even if he was supposed to help Caroline with the wedding. He didn't tell Caroline that he was even leaving, deciding that he didn't have much time left for doing whatever he wanted without a big discussion of the impact it would have on multiple families, so he might as well make use of it. Ricky was a good son; he did what his parents wanted him and he certainly didn't disappoint them. He was a good boyfriend: he spoke to Caroline every night for two hours, even if he was in Italy. He did everything that everyone wanted him to.

Cristiano was late for the assigned meeting time. Ricky had told him the wrong time for departure on purpose so they wouldn't miss the plane altogether. Cristiano shrugged, “The traffic was a nightmare.”

“Traffic's always a nightmare, that's not really a surprise, is it?”

“Liverpool doesn't have any traffic,” Cristiano said, “They've got two streets and one traffic light.”

“I've been to Liverpool,” Ricky said, “I know that's not true.”

Cristiano shrugged, “It was a joke.”

Cristiano played on his phone the entire time they waited in the airport, only looking up when tourists requested autographs. The last time Ricky had been in an airport with Cristiano, an irate Tricolor fan had nearly punched Cristiano upon their arrival in São Paulo from the CONCACAF Gold Cup, evidently still angry about the Corinthians red card.

“When did people start liking you around here?”

Cristiano shrugged, “They only figured out what a gem of a player I am.”

Ricky felt his eyes rolling and things started to mold back into the old rhythms, falling onto the old ways. Cristiano was wearing a t-shirt that said in English, “I am the Walrus” and his hair was shorter.

“What's with the shirt?”

“Xabi...Xabi Alonso bought it for my birthday. He said I'm uncultured. He's a lot like you.”

“Do you understand it?”

“Nope,” Cristiano shrugged and focused on his phone.

They landed in Rio de Janeiro an hour and a half after they left São Paulo. The first order of business was to get lunch and Ricky tried to assess the purpose of the trip. Was it a very advanced bachelor party? Or was it just a vacation? Ricky braced himself, waiting for a surprise stripper when they left their bags at the hotel. Ricky was almost disappointed that a giant cake with a stripper inside wasn't waiting in his suite.

Cristiano ordered a beer and Ricky decided to mirror him. Ricky asked, “Why do you want to be in Rio?”

“I'm not allowed to want to be in Rio?”

“I mean, why are we here on this trip?”

“Italy got you paranoid,” Cristiano said, taking a long sip of beer. Ricky mirrored him, not liking the bitter taste on his tongue, but drinking it anyway.

“Things haven't been easy between us,” Ricky said.

“Oh?”

Cristiano frowned slightly. He traded shirts with Cafu, instead of with Ricky, his best friend. Ricky was, somewhere deep in his body, angry that Liverpool won, instead of Milan, but someone had to win; Cristiano just got lucky. The stupid shirt thing criss-crossed Ricky's head. Why did Cristiano trade shirts with Cafu instead of him? It was the most minor of complaints, but it had blossomed. Then, there was the whole visit to Liverpool, which ranked amongst one of Ricky's more awkward moments in his life.

Cristiano shrugged. They continued drinking all over the city. Cristiano said, “You learn a lot about a city in the bars.”

Ricky had never heard anyone say that, but it made a degree of sense. Ricky would have preferred to go to a few museums, visit the Redentor statue, but Cristiano said, “We're Brazilians, Ricky. We don't need to do that tourist shit.”

Ricky tried to say that they could drink and take go on the cable cars to Sugarloaf, but Cristiano insisted, “You'd miss the World Cup if it meant seeing Dom Pedro's false teeth in a glass case, wouldn't you?”

Caroline called at around eight o'clock, when they were at some restaurant near the beach. Cristiano was chatting up some girls, while also arguing that São Paulo FC was genuinely better than Fluminese.

“Ricky? Where are you? We're supposed to have dinner with my grandparents.”

Ricky had forgotten. He had been drinking and eating all day and could not have wanted less to think about a real dinner with his fianceé's grandparents. Ricky said, “I'm in Rio.”

She didn't respond at first, “Are you joking?”

“It's for a sponsorship thing.”

“You couldn't have told me before right now?”

Ricky knew that he was the one who was wrong. He promised to Caroline that he would have dinner with them when he got back to São Paulo. Ricky rejoined Cristiano, who was still absorbed in his argument. Cristiano rested his elbow on Ricky's shoulder.

At some of the bars, Cristiano got shouted at. In others, Ricky got shouted at. At more, they were both shouted at by irate cariocas. Ricky was worried for their lives when they went to some bar, where one man told Cristiano, “Go back to Portugal and play there! We don't want you here!”

“Yeah? Who's playing for the Seleção? Puta!” Cristiano seemed to want a fight, but the man stepped up to Cristiano, proving to be taller by a few inches and with a face that looked like it wasn't a stranger to fists; his nose was broad from multiple impacts. Cristiano, though no stranger to schoolyard fights, didn't look like his face had been hit with a shovel repeatedly. The only observable mark from Cristiano's fights was that his nose had gained a little bump in his nose from when Cristiano broke his nose. Ricky grabbed Cristiano by his arm and dragged him out of the bar.

At almost two in the morning, they had been run out of enough bars near their hotel for Ricky to call it quits. They were sufficiently drunk and it was pretty warm out, so they want to the beach. Cristiano sang, very poorly, to the night and Ricky whistled along.

“You ever hear the English lyrics of the Aquarela do Brasil?” Cristiano asked, his arm around Ricky's shoulder, his tone much louder than necessary. Ricky shook his head; he wasn't the one who lived in England. Cristiano sang out, badly, “Where hearts were entertaining June!”

“You're so loud.”

“We stood beneath this amber moon! Something something something, someday soon!” Cristiano laughed drunkly, “I don't know all of the words.”

Ricky sometimes wondered if there were certain moments that were just stuck in time someplace. Good moments, like Brazil winning the World Cup or the first time Ricky kissed Cristiano in the field behind the Heliópolis Hospital. The moments would just be stuck, waiting to be relived or possibly just stuck. Untouched and unreachable, but so tempting. The moments didn't even have to be good ones; they could be bad, like when he broke his neck. All that mattered was that the elusive moment was someplace, being continually lived by another version of himself that was stuck within that bubble of an experience.

It was good that Cristiano was drunk, since it meant that he wouldn't get all depressed and odd. He had been strange enough when Ricky visited Liverpool.

As an expert in everything about Cristiano, Ricky knew his different smiles and his different reactions and his different emotions. The Liverpool visit was not a good time. Cristiano could be very difficult to get through to, sometimes; he acted before thinking almost all the time. He spoke without thinking all the time; Cristiano didn't get it, most of the time. He didn't get that the World didn't cater to his emotions, that there were more important things out there than his immediate pleasure.

When Ricky was in Liverpool, Cristiano's smile was off, not to mention he was acting odd, asking strange questions.

“Don't you wonder what things would have been like if we didn't play football?” Ricky asked; Cristiano stopped singing and the nice mood dropped to be more serious. He was thinking about it more and more, since he broke his arm. His fear of his mortality emerging from a comparatively minor injury.

“I'd be fucked,” Cristiano said, still not looking at Ricky's face, his dark eyes focused on the sand next to his feet.

“Why do you say that?”

“I didn't graduate from high school. I'd probably be a builder,” Cristiano said, “You'd probably be a teacher. You'd be good at that.”

“If we didn't play football, you might have finished.”

“I didn't want to be in school anyway. I'd probably be a builder. I failed a lot of my classes.”

“You're good at a lot of stuff,” Ricky said, but as he said it, he realized that being a minor sex addict and good at making friends weren't skills that opened a lot of occupational doors.

Cristiano shrugged, “It'd be like being a really unhappy footballer. I think I'd be okay. I've got the whole 'unhappy footballer' thing down.”

“We wouldn't have met each other, if we didn't have football,” Ricky said, leaning back, suddenly disliking his imaginary life as a teacher, probably teaching literature to a bunch of teenagers who hated him.

“Maybe I'd be building something at the school you work at,” Cristiano said, “And we run into each other that way.”

Ricky nodded, accepting that. He needed to think that fate would always create a moment where Cristiano Aveiro and Ricardo Leite would meet.

“The favelado and the professor,” Cristiano said, leaning back, so his head was even with Ricky's, “That could be the name of that movie.”

“I wouldn't be a professor,” Ricky said, pressing sand away from him. Ricky imagined the moment where they would meet in that dimension: Cristiano would probably be more cynical and bitter, hard to speak to, but his faith and good intentions would be impossible to ignore. Ricky probably would be more naïve without Cristiano around earlier in his life. Cristiano would be obnoxious, whistling at every one of the female teachers in the building, as they attempted to enter, spurred on by his builder friends, who had similar habits. Maybe they would bond over football, though probably not, since Cristiano clung to the insane belief that Portuguesa would reign supreme over all of Brazil and would probably believe the same if he were a builder and hadn't been exposed to playing for São Paulo FC. Maybe Ricky would make fun of the Portuguesa t-shirt Cristiano was wearing under his reflective vest. Or possibly, Ricky would pick up a fallen screwdriver and hand it to Cristiano, the sides of their hands bumping, revealing the now familiar static shock of need, leaving the rest of their relationship to the ether. They could exist in the vacuum of that moment of their hands barely touching for the rest of eternity and it would be okay.

Cristiano hummed the familiar song, looking up at the stars, “You ever think about what would have happened if I stayed in Portugal? Would be hard to get fate to intervene then, huh? Across a whole ocean.”

“I don't like that idea.”

“I don't either,” Cristiano said, “Maybe you could be like Peixinho and go to Portugal young. You could play for Nacional or Marítimo. I'd be the star of Nacional and maybe you could be my underling. Since I'd be the big time guy, you'd have to love me. I could command you to.”

“It wouldn't be difficult to follow that order,” Ricky said absently. Cristiano hummed again, focusing on the breaking waves. Ricky reached out and touched Cristiano's hand, flat against the sand. Cristiano frowned, looking down at his hand.

“You really drive me insane,” Cristiano said, “You don't understand anything about humans, do you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if you understood anything about normal people, you'd know that can't say shit like that and expect me not to take you seriously,” Cristiano pulled his hand away, “You'd know that I really do love you and you'd either fuck off completely or do something so that I wouldn't love you anymore.”

“If you understood anything about normal people, you would have traded shirts with me at the final,” Ricky said, his own neck heating up, “You're not the only one with feelings in this country.”

Cristiano was quiet. Ricky wasn't sure which way the conversation would go: would Cristiano say something that would create a bigger argument or would he just leave. Cristiano said, “You know, you ruin all of the things I like. I can't win anymore without you ruining it.”

Cristiano frowned a lot, but he rarely looked sad. At that moment, he looked sad without frowning; his face was only partially illuminated by the occasional passing car, “I've been so tired lately. No matter how much I sleep, I just don't feel like anything anymore.”

Ricky didn't say anything in response.

“My teammates think I'm going crazy,” Cristiano said, laughing slightly and bitterly, “They think I'm going crazy. I won the Champions League and I'm miserable.”

“Why are you miserable?” Ricky whispered, finally finding his voice.

“If I knew, I wouldn't be miserable anymore, would I?”

“Because we played against each other?”

“Yes, Ricky, because I'm too fragile to play in matches against my friends.”

Ricky shrugged, “You're right, I don't get it. I don't understand what you want from me.”

“I want...Don't you think that you really love me? Like the way your father loves your mother.”

Ricky wasn't sure what to say. Memories of Cristiano flooded his mind. He was wearing the face mask from when he broke his nose. Cristiano said that he tripped over a drug addict in the stairwell of his old apartment building and smashed his face on the ground. Ricky never believed him, but he wasn't certain exactly how he broke his nose. Ricky just remembered them laying in his bed the night they went to the hospital, making grand promises. At training, Cristiano was whispering to Peixinho, who announced loudly to the rest of the youth players, “Cristianinho finally lost his virginity!”

Ricky sat on the sidelines, watching all of this, with his own neck brace on. The other boys were punching at Cristiano, minorly celebrating with him. Cristiano told Ricky all about it that night, whispering so Ricky's parents wouldn't hear. They didn't think Cristiano was an appropriate friend, but the fact that he still came to their house to see Ricky, even though no one thought he was going to play football again, allowed them to forgive his inappropriateness. It was hard to reconcile Cristiano's usual cynicism and his firm belief that they would play on the senior team together, but Ricky accepted it and needed it. No one else from the club and barely anyone from school even bothered to visit him, let alone attempt to convince him that all of his dreams would come true, despite the shrinking likelihood of that possibility.

“My neighbor, she felt bad for me,” Cristiano said, explaining why he was invited into a girl's apartment that he didn't really know that well, “We go to school together, but she's a year above me.”

“Did it feel good?” he asked, since he was no saint and wanted to know.

“Yeah, kind of,” Cristiano said, “Angelica said that everyone's bad their first time. She really didn't like it. I wasn't very good.”

Cristiano was fifteen and Ricky was eighteen. Ricky touched Cristiano's hair, petting it, even though a significant piece of Cristiano's already damaged innocence had slipped away and Ricky felt like the only one who was sad about it. Cristiano's faith, though it wasn't in God, was beautiful and pure and Ricky needed it; he needed to see it.

When he was injured, Ricky wasn't certain if he believed in God anymore; he said prayers before bed, before meals and in Church, but he wasn't sure if God was listening or even cared. He felt like he was drifting through an empty Universe.

“Did you give her all of yourself?” Ricky asked, repeating what the Bible, his pastors, and his parents all said about, wondering if it was an automatic function of sex, to love thoroughly.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you have sex with her because you love her?”

“No. She felt bad for me because my father's rotten.”

Ricky wasn't sure if it was jealousy about waiting to lose his virginity or jealousy of Cristiano losing his virginity to some faceless girl, who didn't really love him, but for some twisted little reason, he never truly forgave Cristiano for it, even if it wasn't something that Ricky had any right to be angry about. That faceless girl took something that should have belonged to Ricky, even if it really didn't.

Cristiano sat up in the present, his innocence still severely damaged. Ricky couldn't imagine himself having sex with someone who wasn't his completely. Caroline slipped away in his head, unfortunately.

“I really do love you,” Cristiano said quietly, “I don't think I can love anyone else as much.”

Cristiano looked innocent in that moment; eyes wide, lips full. Love was innocent, freed from other complications. Ricky thought about every iteration of the possibilities of Cristiano: Portuguese, a builder, and the real one, in front of him.

“I love you, too,” Ricky said out loud.

Cristiano smiled, pained. Ricky leaned against Cristiano and kissed him on the lips, deeply, pressing his whole body against Cristiano's. Cristiano moaned into Ricky's mouth. It was one of those kisses like in the movies; the kind of kiss that changed how you lived your life, changing the stuffiest businessman into a hippy in love with the idea of love.

They laid in the sand, Cristiano fell asleep in Ricky's arms. His Cristiano. His Cristiano was already so fragile and partially broken. They got up at dawn, as the sun started creeping up over the horizon, peeking onto the beach in Rio de Janeiro. Cristiano sat up, stretching his arms and Ricky covered a yawn, mostly thankful that they didn't get stabbed and robbed while they were asleep.

“Do you want to go for a swim?”

It was a little chilly, but Ricky nodded. If Cristiano was hungover, he didn't show it; Ricky felt a little nauseous. They left their clothes on the sand and waded into the water, which was fairly warm, considering it was winter, probably warming the air around them. Ricky watched the wave curl a little bit away from the shore, as Cristiano waded out further, into his line of vision. Cristiano smiled and laughed, in his old way, his old comforting way, “You like what you see, Ricky?”

Ricky snapped out of his daydream. Ricky followed Cristiano, deeper into the ocean. Ricky grabbed Cristiano's hand and pulled him back. Cristiano turned around and he smiled again, his real, genuine smile. Ricky felt the static shock of need and the moment dragged on for eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!
> 
> I fully realize this fic totally got out of hand. :-)


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